


Who Is Like God?

by Gia467



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: (Mostly) Canon Complaint, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Magic, Carmen is a good mother, Death Rituals, Disturbing Themes, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Mental Anguish, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Graphic Violence, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, True Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-02-04 04:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 51,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18596704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia467/pseuds/Gia467
Summary: When Miguel finds himself in the coexistence of two worlds, he has to find ways to solve the problems in front of him, to find balance between obeying orders and doing what's right. In the end it's only about the choices you make, for yourself or for others, and Miguel is struggling to keep up with it all.A fantasy-world AU set during the summer of Season 2, just after "Back in Black."





	1. I See, I See (What You Don't See)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stephluvvsyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephluvvsyou/gifts).



> You will notice some repeated/taken from script dialogue. I always try to tweak it as much as possible, but sometimes (or all the time, in my case) the script does it best, and rewriting a scene that has already been written is a bit tiresome. 
> 
> There will be canon scenes in this story to highlight the cross between the alternate world and canon-reality. Hence, you may read some dialogue (especially in chapter 1) that you've heard before.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of many anomalies.

 

_Encino, California. June 30th._

 

The first time he'd noticed it, he was more preoccupied the heat, how hot his dark hair got under all the glaring sunlight.

“Man, it's fucking boiling.” He’d been grateful they weren't walking, the bike ride at the very least producing some air to alleviate the constant sun. Still, he was much too hot in this kind of weather; his t-shirt uncomfortably damp near his chest and under his arms, his legs still aching from the cement mixer.

“How much further?”

“It's just up here. This is the last stretch of trail, I promise.”

Eli had skipped the half-pound of hair gel for that particular day, his hair hanging his eyes in a messy, faded, blue-turning-aquamarine shag. Sometimes if he got it wet in a pool with too much chlorine, or whenever he’d sweat enough Miguel could see faint streaks of blue running down the back of his neck.

The trail was safely tucked away past the bridge behind Eli’s house and surrounded by all kinds of forest, coming out on one side to a hill, a sort of cliff that looked out towards a lake and the rest of the city. When they rounded the first few metres of trees, off to the side of the clearing Miguel could see a little cabin some ways away; a somewhat run-down looking thing that more closely resembled a sophisticated treehouse than an actual cottage. They ditched their bikes on the grass outside, leaning them up against the wall.

Miguel scanned the area. He could still hear the cicadas buzzing high in the trees. When looks up at the sky, squinting at the sun with one hand above his eyes he could see something else in the trees too, but it moved before he could get a good view of it.  

“You weren't kidding when you said it was way out here.”

“Yeah well, this is the perfect place to fuck off a few days if you need to.”

Eli held the door open behind him with one outstretched hand as Miguel followed him in, the stuffy air of inside immediately noticeable. It smelled the slightest bit musty and there were dead flies on the windowsills. Miguel looked around. There was another level; a loft-like second floor connected by a ladder, with an open hatch that resembled the entrance to someone's attic.

“How old is this?” He put his foot down on the floor with deliberate pressure. He felt like it might cave in.

“Nine years, give or take.”

The floor creaked audibly with the added weight but didn’t actually give way. Miguel pondered the circumstances of such a thing. 

“So did you like, find this or what?”

Eli shook his head. “My dad built it a while ago. He liked to take me camping... but my mother, she'd never let me sleep in a tent," He rolled his eyes briefly, in what Miguel knew by now to be an expression of irritation specifically to his mother.  "So he built _this.”_

“Oh."

Eli flopped down on one of the small couches. “Yeah, so I figured we can spend some time up here for parties and whatnot. Forget the canyon, that's busted now. Cops aren't gonna come way out here.”

Miguel nodded, leaning on what he assumed was a kitchen table. “Great.”

The heat was still almost suffocating, but inside the house was cooler with the roof over their heads; a little relief from the beaming sun. Miguel looked out the window, where a squirrel was sitting on the opposite side, squatting low right on the clothesline hung from the side of the cabin. They had the windows open by now, although it didn’t really do much to aid the situation inside without any AC to crank up. Miguel let his eyes close, imagining that for one moment he was the only person in the room. He could still hear the cicadas from high in their trees, chittering vibrations filtering through the window screen much like the stuffy, humid air. California was experiencing a particularly jarring heatwave and Miguel's body was struggling to adapt. Just short of two days ago he'd been enjoying the breeze and the tame, 65° air.

Everything was serenely quiet for a few seconds, and at once Miguel has a newfound appreciation for a shitty cabin with no cellphone reception. With everything almost dead-silent except for the buzz of summer insects and rustling leaves, it was almost enough to make him tired until music cut through the silence, and Miguel’s eyes snapped open again. His gaze shifted over to Eli, busy fussing with the dial on a radio, a voice cutting over the static.

_To soothe the pain of wasted years_   
_An' kiss away the bitter tears_   
_A love to light the way_

He recognized the tune almost immediately; something his sensei had played before when they were busy fixing the dojo after Aisha had put her foot through the wall, trying to kick someone in the chest. He remembered patching up the broken drywall to the sounds of Joel Hoekstra’s guitar riffs.

 _Like the rolling thunder,_  
 _I feel the power of love,_  
 _It's a gift from heaven_ _  
And the Lord above_

Miguel couldn’t remember the last time he went to church. His abuela prayed in the mornings at 5am and then again at 7 at night, but had always said church was a waste of time. She never liked the pastors, she said they didn't know what they were talking about and spending one and a half hours listening to other people sing hymns made her crave a joint.

He used to love the fantastic biblical stories when he was a little kid, of the martyrs and the so-called messengers, people seemingly touched by God to deliver a message in the form of miracles, given powers from the divine, it was fascinating. When he was younger he would sit and pray to God with her, asking God to give him super strength and other wonderful abilities like the superheros he'd watched on TV, and in exchange he'd be sure to tell people where it all came from so that they could see it with their own eyes and believe in God, too. That stopped after age 10, and he couldn't be bothered to sit and talk to someone who he thought couldn't care less.

It was a silly idea that he sometimes still smiled at.

“So,” Eli was lighting up, another habit he’d picked up from hanging around Moon. “What d’ya say we pick up some booze, get some food and some girls, and get back here for the party? We gotta go pick up Aisha while we're in town. She's bringing some friends.”

Miguel wondered if she'd try bringing Sam along. Lately she'd been trying to get them together in any way she could, adamant on Sam’s eventual forgiveness.

“It's gonna be a rager. Not like last time,” Miguel watched as Hawk tried to blow smoke rings. “That was shit.”

“Yeah...” Miguel mumbled, half to the air around him, his mind on something else entirely. Someone else.  

He sighed, the memory still just as painful and humiliating as the moment he watched her leave, her new Prince Charming loping up the hill to salvage his own chances with her. She didn't even call him to break up with him. The last time he'd spoken to her was the tournament. No closure, no finality. No second chances. 

There was movement by the window again. He squinted a little at the glaring light, trying to focus on the glass. It was one of those large bugs, one of those green, twiggy things that bite and box at people on their hind legs, one that he couldn’t remember the name. It had planted itself on the external pane, its little legs moving up and down the glass. With its wings low on its back, he could see them flutter a little with the breeze.

Miguel gnawed on the inside of his mouth. David Coverdale's voice faded away, cutting off to the sound of more loud, screeching guitar and a new voice that Miguel didn't quite recognize this time around.

_Oh yeah!_

At least it helped drown out Sam's.

_Jump back, what's that sound?_   
_Here she comes, full blast and top down_   
_Hot shoe, burnin' down the avenue_   
_Model citizen zero discipline!_

* * *

By his fifth beer and fourth round of tequila, he'd already given in to the urge to look up Sam on Facebook again, since she'd blocked him on Instagram but oddly enough, not Facebook. She rarely posted things anymore but it was enough that he at least got to see her face every once in a while, not to mention having the opportunity to check for any new ‘developments’ in her relationship status.

He'd been on guard these past few weeks, ready to see that little heart in the status and Robby's picture with hers, but who knows anymore. Nothing was quite meeting expectations lately, with sensei being the brooding mess that he was and giving them shit for attacking Keene. Which begged the question, why was that where Sensei drew the line with the brutality and the ‘no mercy’ that they’d been effectively dishing out round after round with the others? Why him?

It took everything Miguel had not to immediately take off and say ‘screw this, I'm out.’ It was like the rules changed every day, he couldn't keep up.

His head swam a bit, the heat getting to him from inside. There was no AC in his makeshift cabin and people were packed in the living room like sardines. The smart ones had enough sense to linger outside on the benches around the fire. Maybe he could join them. Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he nudged a few people aside and carefully descended the stairs until his shoes were in the dirt again. His head tilted up towards the stars, up to the slope of the eroding roof. There were fireflies near the house, glowing little dots lining the walls like fairy lights; the air was heavy, foreboding. Miguel shivered. 

There was a light tap to his shoulder that nearly made him jump.

“Hey, it’s Miguel, right?”

He turned to a semi-familiar face, but he couldn’t place a name. “Yeah. Uh, I’m sorry I don’t–"

She smiles, extending the hand that's not currently holding a drink. “I’m Dominique, Aisha's friend.”

It’s only after a few seconds of speaking with her that his brain actually registered who she was. The same one that'd been eyeing him all night. Tall and dark-haired, she had a heavy accent when she spoke to him, something from Ukraine or maybe Belarus. He swayed a bit in place, unable to tell if he’s too drunk or if she’s just leaning on him too hard. She laughed loud, right in his ear and that seemed to wake him up a bit.

He suddenly needed to pee. “Uh listen I’ll be right back, alright?” He almost said ‘stay here’, but chose against it last minute.

She nodded, sipping more of whatever was in her cup. “Hurry back.” She smiled, holding all kinds of promises with her eyes. He wanted almost nothing to do with it, but he wasn't about to tell her that. He stumbled a bit, walking off towards the collective of surrounding trees that seemed as appropriate as ever. 

He'd always been a bit freaked out by the forest at night. They seemed a lot more sinister when the sun wasn't around to illuminate it all. Even the moon, as bright as it was tonight, was doing little more than casting ominous shadows over the ground, with every little sound sending Miguel's head turning towards it.

He zipped up his jeans and nearly had a heart attack once he'd looked back up. Right in front of his nose, mere inches away was another one of those long, stickly bugs. It rested on a tree limb, branches extending out towards his face and close enough to touch. Miguel hoped for his sake that it didn't startle as easily as he did; he didn't feel like getting hit in the face with an ornery insect that thought of him as a threat.

It moved slowly, crawling along the branch with none of the usual defensive aurae. This one was different from the one he saw in the window. If he hadn't seen it move he would’ve been sure that it was only a flower blooming on the wood. The thing was pinkish white instead of green, with a strange petal-like appearance to its appendages.

He got a weird feeling in his chest like it was suddenly rude not to acknowledge it. Softly, he spoke to it.

“Hola,” Miguel cracked a smile, feeling silly. “You look like a flower, did you know that?”

The bug ceased its slow crawl, turning around on its legs to face him. Miguel's smile grew; it was if it understood his greeting.

“¿Habla español?” He chuckled, feeling strangely giddy. “¿Cómo te va?”

Its wings spread, shifting up along it's back, fluttering as its body hunched over. Before he can make sense of it, the thing hovered above him in human-esque form, upright on two legs. Miguel felt like he might throw up.

He was hallucinating, he had to be. It fluttered in front of his nose, Miguel's eyes fixed onto it and his mouth slightly agape with words he couldn’t find.

He was stunned, shocked into silence. What trick was this? Maybe he’d gotten so wasted he's passed out in the grass and this is a dream. He needed to run, to away and out of the woods.

So he did. Turned and bolted from the trees, taking the front steps two at a time back into the house. He shut the door, hands pushing on the wood as if the shape-shifting demon thing might come busting in. He was panting a little, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.

A sudden hand on Miguel's shoulder nearly sent his fist right into Eli's face.

“Jesus– !”   

Eli stepped away, taking his hand off once Miguel had raised a closed hand. “Dude, relax. What’s wrong?” He was laughing a little, utterly confused. “Someone after you or something?” He seemed almost excited at the prospect. “We kicking some losers’ ass?”

Miguel shook his head, defences down. “No, no, just got a little freaked out is all, nothing's wrong.” He added.   

“Alright well, Moon and I are setting up Kings Cup, you should come join, her friend has been dying to talk to you all night.” He nudged him purposefully. “That loft up there closes, just so you know.” He smirked. 

Miguel half-assed a smile. He was so drunk he doesn't even think he could, even if he wanted to. “Cool. Uh, good to know.”

That night Miguel slept somewhat fitfully on one of the couches of Eli’s cabin, with a girl he couldn’t remember the name of by his side. He was still entirely unsure if he would somehow wake up tomorrow morning in an entirely different set of circumstances, the whole latter half of the night some fever dream creation from too much Don Julio.

* * *

 The next morning, while still slightly hungover, Miguel went next door to bring his sensei food as per his mother's request. Seeing him eating Slim Jims and fried bologna for breakfast every morning had not been sitting well with her.

He'd never really looked around his apartment before despite having a key to it and being over there four times a week to visit for no reason other than to spend time with him. This time he looked around a bit for him, the quiet apartment seeming a little strange without the constant noise of the TV. He'd been extra keen on being vigilant for any other happenings that mimicked the previous night. He wasn't sure what that was, or if he'd hallucinated it or flat up dreamed it, but he wasn't about to disregard it in its entirety. Maybe he'd ask his abuela about it.

Closing the fridge, something did catch his eye, although it was neither a shapeshifting bug nor was it anything remotely abnormal; just a single picture on his sensei’s refrigerator.  

He didn't quite know how he’d made that jump from ‘kid in picture’ to ‘Robby Keene’ but his brain made the connection almost instantly. He felt the same way as he did last night in the woods, like something wasn’t right and to get out of there immediately. He nearly pocketed the picture for evidence, since this development was most definitely going to be told to Eli as soon as he saw him, but stops and reminded himself that sensei would surely notice that the only picture on his fridge was suddenly gone.

He stared at it, feeling something akin to bitterness. Miguel attempted to rationalize it, mentally pouring over situations in the back of his mind, but nothing made sense. He'd told him about his own absent father, someone he'd never even met, why wouldn't sensei Lawrence bother to tell him about his own son? There was an abrupt tightness in his chest, adrenaline and anger all at once pooling in the pit of his stomach. Was this why sensei had gotten mad at them? Made him and Eli do knuckle push-ups until their hands had bruises. Why he'd lectured them about integrity and accused them of being pussies for attacking an opponent's weak spots? Why the rules of the dojo had suddenly changed and sensei had been so goddamn mopey.

Miguel pouted; he almost wanted to take the food back for himself and Eli after class. Why should sensei get to enjoy his mother's delicious food and get doted on when he was so clearly betraying his trust? He opened the fridge, ready to snatch it back and stuff it away in his gym bag before he pauses. He was angry and feeling awfully betrayed but he was not about to start carb loading as some kind of coping mechanism for whenever he got upset. He'd be fatter than fat if he started that up. Once again, he took a deep breath and pushed that thought back, closing the fridge before storming out, in his haste forgetting to lock the door behind him. He'd have to wait until he had him alone to confront him.

—

During class Miguel kept his eyes on Johnny, unable to stop replaying all the possible arguments in his head. The more he’d thought about it the more upset he got. While Eli was predictably angry at the circumstances, Miguel just felt hurt. He didn't know what it was about Keene being Johnny's flesh and blood that had him so torn up, why it was affecting him so deeply that Johnny had never shared that particular detail about his life.

After Johnny and Aisha finished shooting the extremely amateurish commercial, Eli nudged Miguel in the shoulder, motioning to where their sensei had disappeared into the back room. They followed him, walking quickly up to Johnny with purpose and Miguel was still a bundle of anxiety at the prospect of confronting him.

Miguel spoke first. “Sensei, can we talk to you for a minute?”

“If it's about the infomercial–”

Eli interrupted him. “It's not about the commercial.” His voice doesn't waver as he says it. He sounds stronger than Miguel would have. “It's about Robby Keene.”

Johnny eyed them both, somewhat wary. “What about 'im?”

“I saw his picture on your refrigerator,” Miguel wished he hadn't seen the look Johnny gave him just then, because it got a lot harder to keep up the angry front. “I wasn't snooping or anything I promise, but…”

The look on Johnny's face almost makes him clam up, but his brain quickly trudges back to working form. "We know he's your son." 

Miguel was barely able to spit it out. He trailed off but Eli quickly picked up the slack for him, saying this and that about the tournament and accusing Johnny of favouritism.

"That's why you got mad at us after the tournament, isn't it?" 

Johnny looked more than taken aback by the question, like surprise bordering on contempt. Miguel was regretting this already. He almost wanted to just say _forget about it,_   _nevermind,_ and just walk away, but truthfully he knew that he wanted answers just as much as Hawk did.

“You really think that? That's your grand conclusion?"

Miguel shook his head, wanting to say more but couldn’t even bring himself to meet Johnny’s eyes now. He looked in between them instead, at the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah Robby's my son, but that has nothing to do with how I run my dojo. It's also none of your damn business, do you understand?” 

Miguel felt hot in the face. This hurt way more than he could understand why, and he had to look away before his sensei could see the tears forming in his eyes. He didn't need to think he was a complete pussy, too.

“Yes, sensei.” His voice sounded gravelly, weak.

Eli was clearly not feeling the proverbial punch to the gut, and attempted unsuccessfully to argue back.

“But sensei–”

“But _nothing_ ,” He was angry now. “Get out. You two can clean mats for the rest of the week. I'm done with this conversation, so get back to drills, both of you.”

Miguel gnawed at his mouth again, trying very hard not to let the lump in his throat affect his speaking voice, although he's sure it's obvious by now that he's one ‘quiet!’ away from being a sobbing mess.

Eli bowed, keeping that stubborn look to his face, the same one he wore when Miguel had first told him about it. He exited swiftly, off to use a new student as a training dummy, maybe.

Miguel hung back though, stepping a little closer. He wanted to say something else to him, have him alone. Maybe Johnny would be more understanding if it were–

“Something else you wanna say, Mr. Diaz?”

Miguel looked back up, back at Johnny.

It wasn’t said affectionately. Usually, it was said softly or sternly neutral, but not with disdain. The words he’d planned all morning can't come out without him being reamed out for crying. He could feel the tears in the corners of his eyes start to spill over, and now Johnny could probably see them too. Miguel shook his head, still looking at the space below his eyes.

“... No.”

It barely came out intelligible. He bowed shallowly at the waist, feeling stupid. Turning quickly away, he tried to hang his head long enough to swallow back the tears before anyone else could see it.

\--

[Scene Soundtrack - Click Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iazNuzSV71Y)

_"This is the perfect place to go if you need to fuck off for a little while.”_

 

After class he'd biked straight there, since he had got a few hours until he needed to be back home.

He was peddling so hard his calves hurt by the time he rounded the first set of houses on Eli’s street, intent on going there and just blaring music from the shitty radio and maybe punching trees. Just something, anything to relieve the intensity of what he was feeling. He was so caught up with the adrenaline of emotions that he quite nearly missed the bend in the road that lead to the trails.

Miguel’s bike all but crashed to the ground once he abandoned it in the dirt, wheels still turning in slow stutters as he headed straight for a thick clump of trees, feeling like burying himself in the partial darkness that the trees provided him, and the ability to freely throw punch es to whatever was in sight. Moon wouldn't like it too much if he somehow ripped down all those colourful paper lanterns that she'd adorned the cabin with the pervious night.

He walked far enough that the cabin was now partially out of sight, and sat down on the ground. He swallowed thickly, feeling rapidly growing pressure deep in his chest. He was breathing too fast, he knew he was breathing too fast but the efforts to stop weren't worth it. He was quick to put his face between his knees and curl up, as if anyone was gonna see him having a small breakdown, in the middle of nowhere.   

He’d been doing a poor job of wiping his runny nose with his sleeve when he felt it. A very light touch to his shoulder, the slightest of pressure. He brought his head up, quick enough that he was surprised he didn't startle it.

“You again,” he said, bitterly. It crawled slowly along his shoulder, Miguel following it with his eyes. “Desaparecer.” He tried to shoo it.

He wasn't in a good headspace, never mind prepared to deal with the same thing he did last night. He went to flick it off, shoot it right off his shoulder like the ordinary bug he knew it to be, but it kipped up, hovering in the air and all at once taking on the same humanoid appearance from yesterday.

His breath hitched. “You've got to be kidding me.”

It hovered, transparent wings fluttering behind its back like a hummingbird, right in front of Miguel's flushed face and hazy eyes. Its tiny, twig-like arms extended out, before curling in at the elbows.

_'Come, come with me.'  
_

A jingling sound emanated from it, like it's wings had tiny, barely audible bells.

_'Come see.'_

He'd heard about this. Somewhere in the multitudes of fairy tales and legends his abuela has told him over the years, he can recall something called _chaneques,_ which are supposed to be little humanoid pixie things that lead you to the underworld and take your soul.

He frowned. “No me estarás engañando.”

He didn't know why the creature only understood Spanish, or why he thought the creature only understood Spanish, but he hoped he got the message across. Maybe it didn’t understand anything and he was doing the equivalent of talking to a wall.

“Go on, shoo.” He waved a hand in front of it, signalling it to go. “I'm not following you.”

Its tiny arms extended outward again, grabbing Miguel's finger and it took nearly every ounce of his self-control to suppress the reflex to just fling it into oblivion. He stared at his hand, currently being clutched at by impossibly tiny fingers. He could feel the slight air on his knuckles, hear the distinct hum from its rapidly moving wings.

He still couldn’t believe it. “¿Qué quiere?”

It tugged on his hand, trying to fly away but clearly anchored. Turning its head back to Miguel, who is still stunned and sitting on the ground, it tugged once again, harder this time.

Slowly Miguel stood, the pixie letting go of his finger and levitating mere inches above of his face. 

—

Kreese lingered outside the entrance by Johnny’s car nursing a cigar and complaining about his students, practically rubbing it in his face that Larusso had been training his son.

Johnny scowled. Old habits die hard. He watched Kreese give him the side-eye, his way of saying he disapproved but wouldn't take the route of telling him directly.

_Manipulative prick._

“It doesn’t look good, you know.”

Johnny grunted in the bare minimum of acknowledgment, raising his shoulders in a half-hearted display. "Yeah well, what d'ya want me to do?  

“It's you who should be training that boy, you know that don't you?”

Johnny shrugged again. “It is what it is. It's not gonna happen.”

“Anything is possible." It was said with the same smug, condescension that Johnny always hated. "I guess it's good you’ve still you've got that Mexican.” 

Johnny tossed his bag through the open car window. “Miguel’s from Ecuador... _y'know_.” Despite his tone, he felt like the attempt at subtle mimicry remained unnoticed. 

“Six of one.”

Johnny didn’t bother correcting that again.

“Better make sure Larusso doesn't get a chance to get into his head.” Kreese punctuated the sentiment with a jab of his burning cigar in Johnny's direction, one of the many things he did to emphasize something. “Having your best student run out on you wouldn't be too good for Cobra Kai’s image.”

Johnny slipped into a frown. Larusso wouldn't dare. He'd already got his own flesh and blood attached to his every word. He hated to admit it, but Daniel already had enough leverage over him already. He could get under his skin even when he wasn't trying. Leading Diaz astray would be the cherry on top, but Johnny wasn't sure if Larusso would even stoop that low just to hurt him even more.

“That won't happen.” He retorted, this time with a little more conviction.

But Kreese only shrugged off his certainty. “I'd be careful if I were you. Teenagers can be, shall we say, _finicky.”_

But Johnny wasn't buying it. Miguel wouldn't do that to him, or Cobra Kai. Not after all he'd already been through with him. He just _wouldn't._ Johnny was sure of it.

"Yeah well, Miguel isn't like that. I know him, he's a loyal kid."

Johnny suddenly remembered the look on the kid's face an hour ago, how upset Miguel was all class long and at the tears in his eyes when he'd asked about his secret-keeping; but he was angry at the time. Angry at Hawk for insinuating nepotism was the only culprit behind his desire to be honourable, as if he'd taught them to fight dirty from the beginning. Maybe angry at Diaz too, not for his words though, but at how upset he seemed to get at the fact Johnny had never bothered to tell him. He was never very good with being told what to do, either directly or indirectly. He didn't like guilt trips. 

Kreese finally walked away, apparently finding no more use for this particular conversation, leaving Johnny alone with his thoughts and the faint stench of cheap, burning tobacco. For a while he simply stood around, feeling the sun's warmth on where his V-neck left a portion of his chest exposed. The same face kept popping up; the same nagging feeling of how he should at least _try_ and be the one to resolve this, just to keep Diaz from moping in his room all night long, all because he probably got it in his head that Johnny now hated him. 

The sun was high in the sky. Temperatures had been soaring all week, and it was just going to keep climbing. Johnny turned the key in the ignition, resting his arm out the open window.

It was gonna be an intense summer.

 

—          

Miguel came to a door, an iron gate surrounded by stone that towered over his head. There was a few details, pictures in the wall that'd been carved into it, as if sculptures had been merged into the stone. Somewhat cautiously he shook the gate, adding pressure to detect any weak spots in the door. He wasn't about to scale it and the thing was closed all around. The fairy buzzes beside him, indicating a latch, right above his head and just out of reach. He stretched up, fingers barely grazing the metal. It was stuck.   

“Hazlo tú.” He gestured to the flying thing. Only it couldn't, the piece of metal being too heavy for its tiny arms to dislodge.

Miguel sighed, clearly frustrated. “Really?”

He watched as it pointed to a spot where Miguel could’ve put his foot through, maybe get a grip and some leverage to reach up and unlatch the gate.

“Fine."

He stepped up carefully, putting one foot on the gap and the other flat on the wall, praying he doesn't slip and twist his ankle. He reached up, fingers now able to slide the latch forwards enough so that the gate swung open, and with the addition of Miguel's weight further disrupting the balance, it nearly sent him falling.

“Woah–!” He tightened his grip, caught off guard by the sudden movement. Gingerly taking his foot out from the gap, he jumped back down.

The hinges grind together, creaking when he swung the door open fully, it was a rather heavy door for something so delicate looking. His companion lead him through the pathway, grapevines and overgrown hedges creating a space almost too narrow to navigate with ease. The dying flowers and their thorns embedded in the foliage was catching on his bare arms.

“Ow,”  He rubbed gently at the numerous scratches, some bleeding by now. “Por favour, ¿a dónde me llevas?”

Beyond the thick brush of maze, there was a space maybe ten feet wide where the overgrown hedges hadn't reached. In the middle looked like a well, a pit encircled by a foot high arrangement of stone.

Miguel stood there a while until the pixie tries to hurry him up, pushing rather ineffectively at his shoulder. It hummed in his ear, and his hand goes to gently swat the air.

“Sí, sí.”

_And what laid in the pit?_

He approached it cautiously, looking warily at the ground as if it would suddenly fall away beneath him. Peering over the wall, he looked downwards toward the bottom, a vertigo-inducing drop. There are stairs descending in a spiral, built into the stone walls and everything is covered in green, creeping moss. There was something in the middle that looked like a statue, but he couldn’t discern any specifics from this far up.

He looked back. “¿Abajo?” He wasn’t so sure about this. Following what could be a malicious entity into an underground pit.

The fairy zipped down, bee-lining for the bottom. Miguel reluctantly followed suit, gingerly descending the stairs one at a time, hanging onto anything he could reach. The final set of stairs was much darker than he anticipated, with not much sunlight reaching the very bottom.

His attention was everywhere at once, trying to take it all in. He looked up at the distant sky, at the walls, the tiles below his feet. He ran a hand over one of the walls, trying to feel for anything hidden away. He could hear the fairy, zooming around his head, chittering. He whipped back around, eyes following the fairy's path to a doorway.

The door was closed, and when he tried to open it, clearly also locked up.

“¿Tienes llave?” He pointed to the keyhole. The fairy's jingling was cut off by Miguel's phone buzzing in his pocket.

The notification makes him wince. It's his mother, urgently wondering where he is because it's almost six and he's still not home yet.

“Shit.” He looked around for his buzzing companion. “Es tarde, tengo que irme.”

He made a straight path for the stairs, this time taking them a little faster. Of course, he was still reliant on the sprite to lead him back to the cabin, but made sure to rush the thing the whole way out.

\--

By the time he got back home again, dinner was already made and eaten. He was a little dirty, all the scratches on his arms had raised suspicion from Rosa. He tried to excuse it by saying he was behind Eli’s house, riding the trails in Encino and had no cellphone reception until he was out on the road again. By the time he got back, his mother had already left for work. The apartment is quiet save for the TV in Rosa’s bedroom, and there was a note on the counter from Carmen indicating to him that the leftovers are in now the fridge. He felt bad. Two nights in a row he'd involuntarily blown her off. She liked it when he took time to cook dinner with her on the days she had nights shifts, it was a way to spend time together now that she'd been busier. 

Miguel leaned on the counter, sighing; utterly disappointed in himself but still unable to shake the obvious paths of thought that his mind kept going to.

_You're going crazy._

He was half mumbling to himself, lingering around the kitchen and watching the sun go down through the apartment, everything bathed in golden light. He wasn’t very hungry at the moment, given the past few hours, food was far from his mind. He was aching to just Google everything and anything relating to fairies and underground gardens in the Encino hills. He had every intention to hole up in his bedroom and shut out the world until he could make sense of it all again. 

Faintly he hears a knock at the door, and turns. 

* * *

 When Johnny knocked on the door Miguel looked as if he'd been expecting someone else. He could see it in his face that he was still upset about what had happened earlier that day, with all the obvious gloom and uncharacteristically cautious demeanor, Johnny couldn’t help thinking it was a little bit funny. He didn't mean to be insensitive or whatever you called it, but seeing him so broken up over being yelled at for something he had every right to yell at him for, was awfully ironic considering the concerns Carmen had voiced to him before.

“Hey sensei, what’s up?” He looked so anxious, so apprehensive; quite the contrast to what he'd been like a few days prior, all young teenage vigor and aggressive confidence.

 _Don't worry,_  Johnny thought. _Your sweet and sensitive kid ain't going nowhere._   

He flicked his head in the direction of his still-running car. “Come on, we're going for a ride.”


	2. Sacrosanct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One door opens. 
> 
> Miguel and Tory bond, and Eli takes it too far with Demetri.

Miguel rubbed his shoulder, admittedly it still hurt from having it wrenched behind his back. Little Miss Hotshot was stronger than she looked. One of the many new students that had come after their All-Valley Fest performance. Sensei, for once, had not been moping around in some sort of undisclosed stupor. The entire weekend Miguel had felt happy, feeling like for once things were starting to maybe click into place. Things seemed calmer, but he hoped that saying about the lull before disaster wasn’t always true.

He'd forgotten the girl’s name already despite the pain still lingering. What was it, Tali? Or Terry? Started with a T and was, he remembered, ‘with a Y’. She'd been sure to punctuate that part of it with her hand on this side of his head, holding his face to the floor.

He stepped outside and immediately spotted Eli, leaning against one of the support beams and talking rather irritably to Demetri. Miguel paused for a moment by the door, listening to Eli throw thinly veiled threats at his once best friend.

He can hear Demetri loud and clear from the video call.

“They get immunity?”

Eli stared pointedly into the phone. “No dumbass, snitches get stitches.”

Demetri was so indignant his voice nearly broke. “I _have_ stitches! _Numerous_ stitches! Tell me Eli, what more could I possibly get? Broken kneecaps?”

Eli had let the unsaid threat hang for a few moments before answering. “Just don’t be stupid, Demetri. You’ll regret it, I can promise you that.” He didn’t get another word out before Eli hung up. Miguel approached, lingering off to the side.

“Something wrong?”

Eli shrugged off his concern. “Not at all. just that pussy Demetri couldn’t handle training with Mr. Kreese. He’s just not Cobra Kai material.”

Miguel frowned, but Eli’s conscience didn’t show.

“It’s better off. We can’t have people like him holding us back,” He pats Miguel's shoulder, the one that’s still sore, and Miguel tries not to flinch away. “They’re just not like us; me, you, Aisha. They’re pussies and they’ll get their ass handed to them sooner or later. They’ll learn.” He smiled wryly, turning and leaving Miguel standing there in the parking lot, the sinking feeling in his stomach intensifying.

He turned abruptly, heading back into the dojo where Johnny had etched yet another mantra onto the back wall, a can of Coors in one hand and stencil in the other.

Johnny threw a look Miguel’s way once he’d stopped in the doorway. “I used a level this time. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Johnny could sense some malaise; something was bothering the boy. “What’s up?”

Miguel looked back a moment over his shoulder. He didn't need anyone else eavesdropping on this particular conversation.

“What is it, Diaz?”

“Uh, I’m a little worried about Mr. Kreese. My friend Demetri he uh, he got a little roughed up today when he came in this morning.”

There was a brief twitch of one side of Johnny's lips. “That the mouthy one?” He chuckled, “The one who showed up and tried to put his foot down on day one? Probably deserved whatever he got."

Miguel knows where this is going.“Yeah, but–”

“Don’t worry Diaz, I know John Kreese. He and I go way back. He was just making a point, that kid would be in the hospital if he’d really wanted to hurt him.”

Miguel willingly glossed over the bit where Demetri _was_ in the hospital or at least went to a walk-in clinic, where they’d had to fix up his nose.

“I know you guys are old friends but it's just, some of his stories really don’t...” He floundered for the right words, eyes downcast. “Add up. I’m just a little worried is all.”

Even Eli, with how much he seemingly took to the Kreese's methods, could see it for what it was. As strict as Johnny was sometimes Kreese seemed to be a whole other kettle of fish, and if he was being honest, it scared him.

“He seems a bit harsh.”

Johnny seemed to digest that but still shrugged in lieu of any real agreement. “You’ve gotta trust me. I know him better than you do. It's complicated, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know.” Miguel’s shoulders sagged, and Johnny could see from a mile away that he was saying yes just to try and be complacent. He takes a few steps forwards.

“I’ve got it under control, don't you worry.”

Johnny took a breath, wondering if he'd be sending the boy home with more to think about. Miguel seemed to be a perpetual ball of complaints lately. Complaints and defiance, and Johnny wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. At first, he'd almost admired him for it. Who wouldn't look at Diaz, a brave, fiery kid of his more-than-modest size and not be the tiniest bit impressed at the nerve it took to actually open his mouth? Sure was a lot more than he ever did at his age. His body had gotten stronger but his backbone seemed to lag behind whenever it was important. Miguel had it from the start.

Johnny realized he’d been pausing, and cleared his throat. “Listen, everyone deserves a chance at redemption, or else nobody would ever make any progress. I’m giving him that second chance here. You wouldn’t grow as a person without having second chances, to realize the mistakes you’ve made.”

Miguel’s head dipped forwards again in a brief nod, lips in a firm line. He wasn’t going to fight this, it just didn’t seem like it was even worth the effort, or worth potentially upsetting his sensei. He had a feeling this rationale was a tad more personal than the usual lectures he’d sometimes give them, as if he were vouching for himself as well as everyone else that he thought existed in this potential loop of fuckups and mistakes.

Miguel met his eyes.

“You understand? It’s nothing you need to worry about alright? I promise.”

He nodded, again. “Okay.”

The afternoon sun coming in through the windows, slowly merging with the skyline. Johnny watched him leave out the door and tried hard not to analyze the undercurrent in Miguel’s voice.

 

When Miguel stepped out into the sun, his eyes nearly closed against the intensity of the glare, the faint buzzing in the trees triggering a familiar aura. He lowers his gaze, eyes darting to the ground.

There was a glimpse of something in the dirt, reflecting in the sunlight a little ways away. He had enough curiosity to follow it, his shadow creating a spot of clarity where the sun didn’t touch. He bent down, fingers looping around metal, and pulled.

A key.

 

[Scene Soundtrack - Click](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Li_9_PBeMUQ)

His bike pulled into the clearing, entering that familiar edge of woods. His little guide had come down from the trees to greet him, and he smiled at the sight, having become almost normative in the short span of a week.

“Look what I found.” Miguel held out the key, shiny metal and long, cylindrical bow. “¿Tu podrías llevarme hasta el jardín?”

It zipped away into the trees and Miguel followed, running and eager.

His heart was pounding away in his chest by the time he reached the well, all too anticipatory for what was to come. He descended the spiral stairs, although this time took a brief opportunity to pay attention to his surroundings, approaching the centre of the room. Deep, curved grooves in the tiles lead towards a stela in the centre focus, tall enough to tower over him by a few feet. He slowly reached out to touch it, hand tracing the softened edges of carved stone. In the middle was a prominent lacuna, caved in enough that looked able to tuck himself into it if ever he wanted.

The fairy loomed around Miguel’s head, he watched as it motioned towards the door, the keyhole open and calling. Pulling the key from his jeans pocket, he approached the door, sticking they key inside and wiggling it around, until he is sure it won't somehow break off inside. He carefully turned it, hearing the lock quietly click open, and a pleasant excitement blooms in his stomach. He swallowed, pausing to think and suddenly feeling nervous for what was on the other side. Somewhat reluctantly, he pushed open the door, and was greeted with the sight of nothing. 

A hallway or maybe a tunnel, longer than he could see through to the end, lit by nothing, just pitch black space. Miguel pulled his phone from his pocket, shining a light down into the void, visibility tapering off a mere foot or two. His companion chitters, wings propelling it into darkness and Miguel follows after it, jogging alongside it to keep up and feeling slightly claustrophobic with the darkness from all corners.

What if the door closed and he got stuck? What if this was a trap? Should one ever trust a fairy?

He could still hear its wings buzzing until all at once it stops, coming to a halt. Miguel holds the light out in front of him upon seeing the hallway open up, giving way to another room.

It was a space much like the one he came from, only a great deal larger and untouched with any moss or greenery from floor to ceiling. There was some light, albeit in one place and filtered heavily through a window higher up in the wall, creating a soft streak of light that lead down to the floor. His eyes scan the room, massive murals covering nearly every inch from floor to ceiling, paint and stain visible but chipping, soft and blurry in places where it had eroded away. He could hear his footsteps echoing off the empty space.

“Echo!”

His voice bounces back. _Echo…! Echo…_

It looked much like the photos he'd seen in class, the catacombs of Paris. Maybe this is what this entire structure was, underground tunnels. He was suddenly terrified at the prospect of somehow getting lost, dying in the dark. His unwanted musings were interrupted by more noises from his companion, emitting more chirping noises as it circled a spot on the wall. Miguel shone the light towards it, seeing a space in the stone that looked offset, disturbed. Something was there. He wasted no time, falling to his knees in front of it, fingers digging under the lifted edges of rock to pull them away. In his haste he had foolishly started pulling bottom pieces first, nearly crushing the tips of his fingers under a falling slab. He jumped back, feeling wary and stupid, and tried to distance himself from the wall, half-afraid the whole thing might somehow collapse.

“The hell–”

There was a significant cavity, the bricks having been a superficial cover for the space that lay beyond. The fairy chittered again, excited.

It was a smaller tunnel, looking much too low to fit anyone fully grown unless they were crawling, but nonetheless wide enough to hold a person laying down. Shining the light into the void, Miguel could see clearly enough to determine something was in there. His first instinct is to retrieve it, but the logical part of his brain has the sense to ask a question first.

“¿Es seguro?”

The fairy is by his side in an instant, entering first.

Miguel moved aside the remaining stone and held the phone in one hand, crouching down and crawling through with caution. The tunnel was small; he barely fit.

“I better not get stuck.” He spoke quietly to himself under his breath, half to calm down and half to keep a sense of direction. The sound of his voice echoed less and less the further he went. The end was close.

His ribs suddenly became an impediment, his body becoming too large for the crevice. He panicked, briefly. He was so close to it; just a little bit more and he would have been able to reach in and retrieve whatever it was in there.

“Estoy atrapad, ¿hola?” The fairy wasn't in his peripheral anymore. He squirmed. “I’m stuck! ¡Ayuda!”

His feet scraped against the floor behind him, a sudden relief at his worst fears not being confirmed to him when he was able to push himself backwards. He found it easy enough to back out, able to move further out and back into the open space of the room. Miguel sighed in partial relief but remained frustrated at the circumstance. He wanted what was in there. It was important, right?

He moved forwards again until his ribs were squeezed by the sides of the tunnel. Placing his phone upright against the wall, he was still able to see what laid ahead, and freely use both his hands. He stretched out on his side, extending his arm and inching forwards until his fingers grazed a material, a hard covered cloth and bound paper.

A book? _That's_ what he was retrieving?

He brought it to his chest, securing it. Slowly he backed up until he was free again, the fairy appearing beside him as he stood. Miguel smiled, feeling rather victorious, and held the book out to it with one hand.

“¿Esto es lo que querías?”

He stepped out to where the light was more abundant and examined it, his fingers grazing over the front cover. It was a little bit dirty but otherwise in relatively good shape for something he’d found underground with no real estimate of how old it actually was. There were no words but the engraving on the front looked familiar, despite no detailed recollection of where he’d seen it before. He was a bit annoyed at the seemingly perpetual tip-of-his-tongue feeling he'd been having today.

He combs through, turning to somewhere in the middle until he stumbled upon something that caught his eye. A page, or section, on plants and healing. He quickly closed the book again, the realization coming to him in a rush. He felt stupid now. He stared at the front cover, a snake on a staff, intertwined. His mind goes to all those times he'd hung around the hospital while his mother went to work, all the EMT’S and medical personnel going in and out; it always the same symbol that was on their uniforms, on the sides of the ambulances.

He laughs a little, feeling a bit silly for not realizing it sooner. “Holy shit.”

The symbol was missing the 6-pointed star of life, and with only a single snake wrapped around the staff, it looked somewhat incomplete.

He flipped through a bit more, combing over the contents from beginning to end, standing there with his flashlight in a darkened room and reading over briefly everything from bloodletting for neurosis, to root vegetables in bowls of milk for pregnancy. 

He jumped a little at a sudden touch to his shoulder, turning his head and letting out a small breath when it's nothing unfamiliar, merely the thing that had lead him here. It goes to hover over the book, still open to the page on mandrake roots, and slips its arm under a few pages forwards, lifting them until Miguel took it upon himself to flip them over.

It was another passage, one containing a picture of a tree with a large base and twisting branches extending diagonally to form a stout, sparsely-covered mass at the top. Below were pencil drawings, depictions of leaves that looked like palms, and illustrations of the tree overlooking graveyards. 

“Taxus baccata, the  _Yew Tree…”_ He mumbled scanning the page, eyes more drawn to the ‘medicinal and other uses’ section than the taxonomy. He scans it, a few words jumping out at him, mumbling them nearly inaudible.

_Often associated with immortality, often planted near graveyards._

_A Pandora’s box of compounds and many have been identified including taxines, taxols, taxusines, which have shown efficacy as–_

"...anti-cancer agents."

Miguel frowed. He looked up, trying to swallow away the sudden feeling in his throat. His brain was doing flips, the ambiguity now a crushing weight on his shoulders.

“No lo entiendo.”

The fairy merely patted at the page, tiny hands communicating utmost importance.

* * *

_Sherman Oaks Galleria, 1:38pm._

 

_Make a move. Go all in._

The words made sense like this, he thought. Just maybe, this could be a critical moment in the potential reconciliation of him and Sam.

If only he could get it to not be so bad.

He was in the middle of merging their photo back together when a chunk of wet ice hit his laptop's keyboard, bouncing to the floor.

He looked up, and Tory smiled in fake apologetic.

“Oops, sorry. Slipped right out of my hand,” Her hand went through her hair, brushing it back from her face. “How clumsy of me.”

He managed to half-ass a smile before he looked back to his screen, not too keen on being interrupted for a second time. He heard her chair scoot out from behind her, and soon she's got her herself planted across from him, trying to pry his fingers off the laptop so he could turn it and see.

“No, no, really it’s nothing–”

"Seriously, what have you been working on this whole time?"

He froze, suddenly nervous. “Uh...”

Her expression changed immediately. “Is it dirty?”

"No, of course not!"

“Then show me, please? C’mon, whatever it is it can't be that bad.”

He paused, looking off to the side. She was a girl, and she would hypothetically, know what other girls liked and disliked, right? Maybe?

“Fine, I guess I could use a girls’ opinion on this anyway.”

He turned the laptop so she could see it, pressing play with the slightest of hesitance.

“I was hoping to wasn't too cheesy, with like, the song and the octopus–”

_“Shh.”_

For a few seconds he caught her smiling, and was pleased that in any case, it could apparently elicit some form of positive reaction. However, Miguel didn't get to see the smile slowly slip right off her face once the picture of Sam appeared, his attention drawn to the tables behind him, the flow of soft music interrupted by the sounds of Eli.

“Who the hell is this guy?”

His eyes flickered back and forth from the laptop screen to their table, until Eli practically shoved a chair into an adjacent table.

“That's it, I'm ending this.”

Miguel turned in his seat. Eli was stalking towards the exit with two others in tow, but before he could make it past Moon and Aisha’s table Miguel had the sense to get up, momentarily abandoning Tory a few feet away. Miguel moved directly in front of his friend, effectively barring the group's hasty escape.

“Hey–”

Eli nearly shoves Miguel to the side. “Out of the way, man, I need to go deal with someone.”

“What's wrong?”

Eli looked pissed. “I was right.”

Miguel just looked lost. “About what?”

“About Demetri!” Furiously, he shoves his hand in his pocket and hands a phone to Miguel, who took a few seconds to register what he was supposed to be looking at.

He shakes his head. “Dude, it's just a stupid review, who cares?”

“He's trash talking us, Miguel. Me, you, Aisha and the dojo. Don't you care that he's trying to ruin Cobra Kai’s reputation just because he couldn't stand having someone put him in his place?”

Miguel paused. Demetri, while sometimes rudely obnoxious and demeaning, didn't quite deserve a hard punch to the face. At least, not to him.

“So he's mad. Go talk to him. He's your friend, remember?”

Eli scoffed. “He's a lying piece of shit! He's _not_ my friend anymore.”

“Well, what were you gonna do, beat sense into him?”

He nodded, a little nonplussed. “Yeah?"

Miguel's eyes nearly touch his brain. “Alright, awesome, wonderful solution.”

The scar on Eli's upper lip contorted a little with his sneering frown, something that he'd picked up from god knows where. “What else am I supposed to do? Sit back and watch like a coward? Just do nothing?”

Miguel nearly brought a fist down on the table beside him, utterly exasperated. “I'm not saying that!”

“Sure sounds like it. Weren't you paying attention to what sensei said? You've gotta make a move, go all in. What do you think I'm doing here?”

Miguel felt like they might've been pulling two different things from that lesson, although he wasn't even sure what he was supposed to be getting from it. Surely, sensei hadn't meant this. His mind suddenly went to the time he'd brought it to sensei’s attention that fighting for a cause wasn't just beating people up. Beating up Demetri was going to do just as well as beating on random committee members for the Cobra Kai ban. It wasn't an option then and it shouldn't be an option now.

“I'm not saying do _nothing_ , but you're not gonna solve anything by beating him up. You've gotta be smarter about this.”

“And how are _you_ so sure it won't do anything? I didn't know your life philosophy suddenly revolved around being a fuckin’ pacifist.”

Miguel groans. “How well did it work for sensei Kreese? All that did was fan the flames, and now look! Beating him up isn't going to do anything, Hawk.”

Eli stood still, the urgent jitteriness seemingly having left him for a moment. “You have your ways, I have mine. Believe me, he’ll listen this time.” 

Miguel bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose; a headache was beginning to form behind his eyes. He looks back up with Eli staring him down and the other two still hadn't made any move from their positions behind him.

Miguel stands straighter. “Just know that you're not getting me involved with whatever it is you're doing here, I want zero part of whatever _this"–_ he motions to the group with one hand– "is.”

Eli got a little closer. “Yeah? And I'm not asking you to be. Do what you want, but I'm making a move.”

He shoved past him, followed closely out the door by the two new recruits he'd been effectively bossing around all day long, another thing that Miguel felt was utterly pointless. The door shuts with a slight clang behindnthem, and when Miguel turned back to Tory she was still sitting contently in her seat, unfazed by the whole thing.

She smiled, a very tongue in cheek glint in her eyes despite Miguel's profound aura of gloom.

“I really hate to pile it on, but I've got some not-so-nice words for this thing on your computer.” She glanced at it. "I think you may have to throw the entire computer away."

 _"_ It's _that bad?"_

She nodded. "Makes you look desperate... And girls don't want desperate."

He flopped down, hand swiftly closing the lid. “Just... you know what, forget I ever showed you that, deal?”

"Deal." 

He was no longer interested in garnering opinions. If today's events were to be an indicator of how Sam might respond to his attempts, he wouldn't be sending it at all. He wouldn't be going anywhere near her. Knowing his luck, Keene would be looking for any excuse to make his three years of dental work into wasted labour.

“You seem awfully stressed.” She added. 

He eyed Tory's dessert fork on the adjacent table. “Please just take that," He pointed to his neck, "And stab it right into my jugular.”

She giggled, laced with faux concern. "Wow, alright then. I think you need to chill out. Just don't worry about your friend drama right now–" 

He sighed heavily, feeling every bit as pathetic as he probably looked to her right then, chin resting heavily on his palm. “I'm just so sick of this. It's been nothing but just bullshit after bullshit. I can't keep up.”

 _And,_ he thought, _a few other incidents that I'd be insane to mention to you right now, but are getting pretty stressful even without Hawk's bullshit._

Gingerly she took his hand from under his face, and held it between hers for a moment. “You've just gotta stop trying to take on the world.”

He shrugged. “Yeah well, what if I'm supposed to?”

“Well to be honest, the world is kinda screwed no matter what, so," She smiled again, putting on a sillier expression. “Frankie say relax!”

He stared. Her shoulders slump.

“Oh come on, you know all this other 80’s crap but you don't know Frankie Goes to Hollywood?”

He mentally flailed, understanding nothing. “Uh, is that a, reference to something?”

She sighed, exasperated. “Listen, you've just gotta chill out for a bit, just forget this girl and forget about your friend there,” She motions to the door. "Ships have sailed. So just relax, just have some fun.”

He chuckled dryly, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “Let me guess, you know just the place?”

There was a tad bit of surprise in her expression, but she smiled, hands still enclosing his. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

—

Miguel couldn't sleep.

 

_Kreese’s arm was around Johnny’s neck. “Two difficult choices.” He said._

_Johnny answered for them.“What do you do? You damn the consequences and you power forward.”_

_He threw both of them both to the ground, landing hard on his side. “You may get hurt, but nobody wins by doing nothing.”_

_Johnny had looked at him then, in much of the same way he’d assured him that everything was going to be okay with Kreese. Johnny stopped in front of him._

_“You make a choice, you make a move, you go all-in."_

 

He didn't quite know what sensei had meant by that. When Tory kissed him in the playground, just the two of them alone and her hands in his hair in the middle of the night, he'd went home with a bruise below the collarbone and still feeling the weight of her in his lap.

He wasn't sure before then, and he wasn't sure now. It felt good to kiss her but it wasn't the same. He felt guilty for thinking about a different face, subconsciously comparing how different Tory’s mouth felt, how her hands roamed his torso instead of resting gently on his shoulders. Sam had always rubbed the side of his neck with her thumb. He kisses were always gentle, never urgent or controlling.

There was too much to mull over, too much to think about. He’d gotten himself into many things he wasn't sure of. He felt bad about lying to his mother, to his Yaya. But who would listen?

Was he going crazy?

Nothing made sense anymore. The more he thought about it the more minutes ticked on until they became hours, and soon it was 1am and he still couldn't sleep, tossing and turning and thinking about everything. He almost felt like he was going to wake up one day bleeding from the palms and feet, maybe he'd be able to see into the future or be destined to save the world. 

That didn't seem too far fetched now. Maybe he _was_ meant to take on the world and all of it's sins. 

He could hear his phone, softly going off on the other side of the room but chose to ignore it, much too exhausted to get into any sort of conversation.

It was too hot. He threw off the blankets to open a window. Their AC had been malfunctioning, the house holding onto the heat that seemed to just seep through the walls. He pushes his window up and open, a breeze coming through and hitting his chest. His phone, on the desk behind him, glows bright few a few seconds, pinging again. 

Moon's name flashed across the screen. He swiped up, opening it.

_(sent at 1:57) Hey Miguel._

_(sent at 2:07) sorry if this wakes you, but I need to ask you something._

_(sent at 2:09) Please, take care of Hawk for me. Make sure he has someone to talk to. He's never had anyone before. I'm really sorry about this cause I probably just made a bunch of stuff worse for him, but he really scared me with what he did to Demetri. He is going way too far, I just can't deal with it. I don't know if you know what happened already, but I saw you guys talking before he left, I don't know if he said anything to you then. I'm really sorry, I'm sure he'll be okay but I think he really needs some support right now. You're his best friend._

He frowned. He and Moon had never really spoke much, so getting a message like this at 2am was a little alarming. He almost replied, started typing out the message only to erase it again. He wanted to ask what she meant by that, what she was talking about, but even in his half-awake state, he could still make a few guesses as to what happened. He puts his phone on silent, laying it face down on his end table and crawls back into bed, feeling exhausted and anxiety-ridden, an entirely new set of worries on his mind. Mentally, he can't stop replaying the scene he'd so willingly let unfold today, all because he was busy making a video for Sam that he would inevitably never send, too busy kissing Tory in the park while Eli had been dead-set on revenge for a goddamn Yelp review. Honestly, what was the big deal?

He groaned, shoving an arm under his pillow and shutting his eyes trying to block out the moonlight pouring in through the blinds; yet another impediment to sleep with his mind racing like it was. He feels guilty; about not being more adamant about his opposition, about being so caught up in his own stupid world, about kissing Tory while thinking of nothing but Sam the entire time. 

He just should have gone with him. Should have said no fucking way am I leaving you alone with that idea in your head. Maybe then he could have eventually talked some sense into him and stopped whatever it was. He almost wanted to call Eli, to demand to know what the hell had he done to make a girl like Moon fed up with him. To her, he was probably  _Hawk the Badass Karate Fighter,_ her pugnacious boyfriend that would defend her honour against anyone who looked at her wrong, or some shit like that. He didn't think Moon would ever leave him for fighting; that's why she liked him, or so he thought.

He wasn't sure where the line was anymore between mercy and weakness, or standing up for what was right and realizing when to back off; how insidiously slow change can be when you're not conscious of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of any cast pictures I use here are from bitkahsfandomcaps on Tumblr (main blog: outforawalkbitkah). I big thank you to her.


	3. Shifting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny leaves, and Miguel takes action.

“Then happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”

 _— William Shakespeare, King Henry IV_  

 

 

_Bay Ridge, New York. 2002._

 

It felt surreal. She'd seen it on television and in movies but never would have thought that she would ever get to see it in person. 

Never thought she'd even leave her hometown. She had little before, now she had even less than that. 

She had decided to take a walk. Rosa was napping, and Miguel was bundled up in her arms in a woven blanket and a tiny, yellow hat. The air was crisp, chill. The downtown was busy. Way too many times had she nearly knocked into someone coming out of a building. It got cold here. Darker sooner. It was only around 7:30, but the streets were lit by the lights from shops and restaurants, cars driving down the streets one after the other.

She looks up at the sky. Flakes are falling past her face, melting on her skin. In her arms, Miguel is trying to reach his fingers to the sky, making incoherent noises of amusement. She looks down, caught up in the snow and at him, and smiles as fluffy clumps of snow collect in the collar of her black pea-coat, a thing she's never needed until now.

“Look, look...  _snow.”_ She says, and Miguel stares at her, at the sky with those big, dark eyes. The whole city street looked like a postcard. The stars in the sky aren't outshone by the city lights but instead stare brightly back, little specs of light guiding her through the street. 

_“Isn't it beautiful?”_

She blinks snow out of her eyelashes, but when she opens her eyes again, the crispness in the atmosphere is blown away, a warm, familiar air taking hold.

She moves her fingers, Miguel's weight sliding out of her grip and replaced by a numbness in her forearm, stuffed securely under her pillow. Abruptly she sat up, looking around a bit until her brain realized she was home, sixteen years in the future. The room was still dark with no morning light, and she has to briefly grope around her bedside table for the lamp. At such an early hour, far past where most have stayed up, but too early for others to wake, there were no sounds from the apartment block. Just her, breathing in the stuffy air with her dry throat. She wanted some water, or maybe some tea. 

She wandered into the kitchen, where someone else had already taken up space on the living room couch. 

“Miggy?”

His head popped up, startled eyes glinting in the soft light coming from the TV, muted but still on,  illuminating the small room.

 “Jesus, you scared me…” 

“What are you doing up?” 

“I..." He looked down. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d read a little.”

“Oh,” She stepped closer, eyeing the rather large book in his hands. “What are you reading?”

However, he quickly shut it before she had time to catch what was on its pages. “Just something for school, for history." 

“Oh.”

“What are you doing up?”

“Getting a drink.” She paused. “I was having those dreams again.” 

“Oh." 

“Yeah, New York. When we saw snow... you're always so happy in those.” 

Miguel pressed his lips together. “As opposed to real life?” 

“That's not what I meant.” 

“I know.” 

She shrugged. “You've been preoccupied lately, I guess, so have I.” 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s been a long week.” 

He nodded, the book now close to his chest. He glanced over at the mute TV. 

She followed his gaze. “You should try and get some sleep you know.”

Miguel shrugged briefly, apathetic. “I don’t have school tomorrow or anything.”

Carmen, who’d been lingering by the entrance way to the kitchen, came and sat down beside him on the couch. Miguel was quick to shove the book down to the floor, now resting closely beside his feet. 

“Yeah but, you know I need you to be here tomorrow, I work and Yaya hasn’t been feeling well. All that medication and the chemo, it's been giving her some bad side effects. I need you to stay home tomorrow after you go to class, and make sure she’s alright.”

Miguel looked down to his lap. Her hand moved up from the couch to push his hair back from his forehead. His skin almost felt a little warm. “Can you do that for me?”

He sighed, voice coming out quieter than before. “Is it bad?”

Her turn to shrug. “They um, they said the survival rate is around sixty percent if it's caught early, which it was. She just really needs her rest right now. The medication and the chemo make you feel very sick.”  

His fingers folded themselves into each other, tightly connected as his shoulders slid forwards. “Okay.” 

“It’ll be okay, you’ll see.”  Carmen’s hand raked through his hair again. “It’ll be okay, mijo.”

“Sure.” He stands, collecting the book at his feet and walking right past her. “I’m going to bed, I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Miggy, wait a minute-” She stood, following him quickly into the hall, able to catch his arm before he ducked out of sight behind his bedroom door again, spinning him around to face her. “Miguel–”

Tears were welling up in the corners of his eyes. He wasn’t crying yet, but the sudden retreat to his room was a way to avoid doing it in front of her. 

“Miguel, it'll be okay, she's a strong woman, it'll be okay.” 

His hair was getting longer. Long enough that she could tuck a bit behind his ear whenever he didn't style it, and it's all a wavy mess that he didn't mind she put her hands through. 

Carmen tucked a bit behind his ear, smoothing it out. Her other hand slipping down to his shoulder blade, his feet only get to make a single step forward before she brings him closer, both arms around his back, as his head goes to rest on her shoulder. She hums softly to him in that familiar way, a few bars of a song she could never remember the words to, something she'd heard once or twice a long time ago when he was this small, tiny thing and she was fresh off the plane and not yet taking her grandmother's maiden name. Maybe she wasn't even remembering it properly. It didn't matter much to her though, she felt him relax all the same, just like he always did. 

By the time she got back to her own room, it was getting a little lighter in the sky. The sun wasn't peaking above the horizon yet but it was enough to brighten up the once pitch-black sky. This time, when she fell asleep, she didn't dream at all. 

* * *

Miguel almost felt like the interaction some hours before was a dream, or part of his anxious subconscious needing a hug to quell the worry. 

But it wasn't. He knew it wasn't because the book was no longer on his bedside table, but his desk. He was tucked in when he woke up. It was somewhat late in the morning, but he still felt groggy. He'd been in such deep sleep. He could smell something too, a semi-familiar smell like fresh bread and salt.

He walked in the kitchen still a bit tired from the night before, and Carmen was already up and making breakfast. Carmen handed him a cup of tea, and gestured towards Rosa on the couch. She was watching one of many telenovelas she’d been keeping up on, today it was  _Corazón salvaje._

“Buenos días,” Miguel handed her the cup, with perhaps a bit too much caution. He knew it was wrong to think of her as weaker, but it was something he always did around sick people, handled them like they were fragile.“¿Cómo te sientes?” 

She smiled at him, even going so far as to pat his hand. “Bein, cariño. No te preocupes pour mí."

Carmen was still cooking fritajas and cutting up loaf bread, chatting back and forth with Rosa as Miguel sat down at the table, looking between the two of them. 

“Tú descansa un poco, mamá.” 

“Sí, sí, lo sé.” 

“Y Miguel estará aquí contigo si necesitas algo.”

“After class.” He added. 

“Yes Miggy, after class. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t be gone long-” 

“Aye,” Rosa frowned, pointing her hand to Miguel. “Yo no soy débil-”

“Mama, no estoy--”

“No tiene que quedarse aquí, déjalo que salga a divertirse. Miguel, ve a encontrarte con tus amigos.” 

He interrupted the both of them “Um, it’s alright. I'm kinda tired anyway. I think I'd rather just come home, and relax.”

" _Mama,_ ven a comer algo.  Apenas comiste antes." 

"Bueno, si estoy hambriento entonces voy a comeré. Ahora me siento _enfermo del estomago_ , no querrías comer."  She turned again, back to the TV, and Carmen's eyes settled on the bread again. 

Miguel's mood sank, watching and listening. He didn't want her to feel sick or not get enough sleep because of the pain. He didn't want her to have to go through round of treatment that makes her sicker and weaker, and might not even help her. 

Carmen watched as the amicable expression slipped off his face, head going to rest on the table, in between his folded arms. 

“Did you sleep okay?”

His head poked back up. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“I was worried I would wake you with all the noise in here, but you sleep like you're dead.”

“I was tired, I guess.” 

"You know, when you were a baby I could vacuum the room while you slept, it was like you didn't even hear it. Never bothered you." 

His attention was now off her, looking around the room, and settling on the door. The sunshine was bright through the windows, except for where Rosa had close off the blinds, trying to prevent early morning glare from reflecting off the television screen. 

He stood, chair sliding back against the tile. “I think I’ll head to class now.”

“So nobody’s eating?” Carmen stood, spatula in one hand and dishtowel in another, over the untouched food in the table; her annoyance at the fact that she’d been up early for no reason clear in her voice, all this time cooking away for two people that did not wish to be fed. Not to mention, worrying about the reasons why. “Fritajas are your favourite, I made them for you.” 

“I...” Miguel immediately felt a pang of guilt. “I’ll eat after class, I promise. I just, I’m nervous right now. There's a new instructor at the dojo and, sensei Lawrence wants to impress him. I don’t want to overeat.”

 _“Impress him,_ what on earth does that mean?”

“He’s been more uh, demanding lately.”

“He’s not being too rough on your guys, is he? You just won the tournament, he-”

Rosa interjected. “¡Debería ser feliz!”

“He is.” Miguel tried. “It’s just–”

Rosa laughed. “Apuesto a que es ha recibido mucha negocios.”

“Yeah, lots of new students, which is why I can’t be late.” He grabs his bag, not wanting to stick around much longer. “I’ll see you in a few hours, I guess.” 

“No te apresures!” 

Miguel nodded, somewhat hastily. “I’ll be back soon, no rush.” 

He turns around from his position at the door, while Carmen gives him a half-smile. He wondered if his eyes looked just as dark underneath. 

—

“Who trashed the Miyagi dojo!” 

God his legs were hurting. All had been well until the dojo was thrown into utter chaos with the familiar chime of the door, and a man that Miguel recognized as Sam’s father suddenly walked in.

No scratch that, more like _stormed in,_ with his running shoes on the mat and Johnny was across the room almost immediately.

_“Take your shoes off the mat, you’re disrespecting my dojo.”_

_“You’re joking, right? You’re honestly gonna sit there and talk about respecting dojos after what you did to mine!”_

His lungs burned like hell. The entire dojo was a panting, heaving mess. Who would trash another dojo? How petty do you have to be? 

“I can do this all day!” 

How _stupid_ , do you have to be?  Here he was doing burpees and weight exercises because some idiot –or _idiots_ , rather–  thought it was a great idea to fuck with something that didn't even make a difference to them in the end. And for what? To intimidate them? To threaten them? To get back at them for some empty, imagined slight? 

Amid his own laboured breathing, Mr. LaRusso’s voice intruded to the forefront of his brain.

_“A sensei elevates his students, a sensei encourages personal growth. He doesn’t teach destruction and disrespect!”_

Johnny had never said jack shit about Miyagi-do to them before. Miguel had only watched as the two adults slowly closed the gap, only a few inches between them and listening to Daniel rattle on and on, Johnny not doing much of anything until Daniel started with the propositions. 

_“You have zero idea what it means to be a real sensei. You know I feel real sorry for these kids.”_

Miguel almost wished he'd said something. But what was there to say? Nothing he could have said at that point would make a difference. Maybe Daniel even thought he was the one who'd done it; he already hated him anyway. 

"I'm not looking for excuses," Johnny barked, "I'm looking for answers!"

Miguel gasped out, standing straight for a moment. "Sensei, we really don't know." He drops back to his hands and feet, wrists aching with the pressure and lungs feeling like he'd swallowed over-chlorinated water. 

"Well someone knows something, just a matter of who's gonna break first."

Kreese stood there, arms folded against his chest while Miguel suppressed the urge to glare. He looked far too smug, unlike Johnny who just looked lost. 

There was a sudden ringing that Miguel wasn't sure if it was just in his head somehow, until Johnny looked over his shoulder and swiftly exited the room with one final warning and leaving them there with Kreese, who was sizing them up again in the same manner he always looked at them. It put a bad taste in his mouth, how he looked at his students. Johnny never looked at them with disdain or with superiority, but Kreese always did, always acted like they were tiny little bugs under the glass. 

Kreese's characteristically calm voice signalled a pause in the grueling repetitions, and everyone all-but drops. Miguel arched his strained back, sore from all the repeated movements. In the midst of regaining his breathing he spotted Eli out if his peripheral, talking to Kreese. 

_“You don’t earn the medal of honour by stealin’ it!”_

Miguel didn’t know why, but his eyes went to Eli once Daniel had yelled like that. He’d been flicking over other students; at Aisha, at Tory, at Bert, along with everyone else gathered around the room to watch them. Something in the way he'd had looked to the floor made Miguel linger on him a bit longer, until eye contact broke the stare. They looked back at the adults, their tension building in tiny waves. 

He was so confused, so utterly lost at this point. What happened to the dojo? Why was he so goddamn angry? Was this an entire orchestrated plot to steal students away? Miguel's chest burned and his throat felt torn up from breathing so hard. This was insane. Can someone just fucking confess? The little water that he managed to scarf down felt worse than none at all.

Johnny comes back, but left out the door with only a few words to Kreese. Miguel had met his eyes as he walked to the front door, but he didn't say anything to him. Watching Johnny leave out the door, Miguel's regret started to seep through. But it was too late to run after him, not to mention, he barely had the energy to speak up.  

Once again, Kreese’s voice cut through all the heavy breathing and coughing, steady and almost disgusted. 

“Clearly this isn't working well enough. I promised sensei Lawrence I’d get a confession out of this group.” He flicks his head in the direction of the freshly-cleared back room. “All of you, in the back, now. I have a more effective plan in mind." 

Miguel didn’t bother to hold back his glare. At that particular moment he hated him, he really did. 

“Time to feel how the weight of your actions affects all of you.”

—

“God, he’s not gonna let up, is he?”

If it weren’t for the fact that his arms felt like they were being bitten by fire ants, he may have been more conscious of how sweaty and unappealing he looks with Tory right next to him. 

“Someone's gotta confess soon, this is unbearable.” Her voice is as wrecked as his is. 

“Mind if I puke in here?” 

He heard Aisha."God no, no puking! _Do not_ puke!” 

Now Miguel tried not to puke. “We gotta figure out who did it.”

“I bet it was shitbreath.”

Tory looks past him, to the guy who Miguel still didn’t know the name of, however Tory had so helpfully substituted one anyway, an action that wasn’t appreciated.

“Hey screw you!” 

“What’d you say?” 

 _Shitbreath_ dropped the ropes, swiftly advancing. “You wanna go right now?”

“Hey hey hey!” Miguel’s arms flew out on either side, Eli jumping in from behind him to hold back whatever-his-name-was, trying to prevent anyone from screwing the whole group over further. 

“Stop!”

They froze. Turned to the front, where Kreese was slowly pacing the room.

“Do you really want to know who did it?” 

Miguel frowned. He had to be joking. Did someone confess ages ago and they were just doing this for kicks? His insides felt like an oven, heat radiating off his skin in unbearable waves, while he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to prevent sweat from dripping into them. Whoever had been making them do this for even five minutes more than necessary seriously deserved a swift kick to the face.

Miguel brought his head back up in time to see Kreese raise his arm, gesturing to the boy beside him.

“It was Hawk.” 

Tory was looking past him now, incredulously at Eli like everyone else in the room. This time, Miguel just stared ahead, only shaken out of whatever clusterfuck his thoughts had become once he’d heard his name. 

“And it was Diaz.”

That woke him up. 

_It was certainly not._

_It was not! What the fuck was he talking about? Had someone seriously blamed them–_

“And Robinson.” 

Kreese just continues. “And it was Nichols, Chubbs, Red, it was all of you.”

Miguel opens his mouth. 

“Your actions weigh on more than just yourselves. All your choices, all your moves, have consequences just like anything else. You are a group, you are a collective who acts in tandem. You affect one another like a chain, and you aren't just looking after yourselves anymore, because you are _all_   _Cobra Kai.”_

Miguel’s fists were by his sides, feeling his nails bite into his palms a little from the pressure. He felt irrevocably angry, felt incredibly stupid for allowing himself to be manipulated like this. For all he knew it could’ve been _him,_ the man so smugly and derisively spouting off such bullshit to all of them. His mouth closes tightly, forgoing any kind of retort he had in mind in favour of trying to keep himself from going up and just kicking him in the groin like he wanted to, after all this. 

He hated him, he really did. 

Sensei, their _real sensei,_ would _never_ do this to them. What on earth was he thinking, leaving them like this?

"Five minutes, front dojo." Kreese looked them over again, all still panting and confused, before turning and disappearing through the archway. 

—

He was still holding onto that same anger when Aisha very gently tapped him on the shoulder, feeling the tense muscles underneath his gi. 

"Hey."

He turned. "Hi." He knew he looked terrible. He didn't need a reminder by how she's looking at him. "What?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to hang out today, we can go to our usual spot?"

He thought about it for a minute. It would have been nice, but he remembered his promise. "I uh, I've gotta go home-"

Aisha snorted. "Well yeah, you stink, go take a shower first." She joking of course, but he's still somewhat aware of the state he's in. "I'm kidding but, you can if you want, I probably should too. But I can come pick you up-"

"Uh, no I meant like, I gotta go home... I actually have to _be_ _home."_

"Oh? Grounded again?"

"No, um," He hadn't told her about his abuela yet. Mostly because she just went for tests when he saw her last, and he wasn't even sure there was anything dire to this particular bout of flu, even with he bruises on her legs that she said was just from gardening. No need to involve anyone else quite yet. "My abuela hasn't been feeling well, I just, need to make sure she's alright."

Her brows knit together. "Oh, still? I hope everything's okay."

Shallowly, he nodded, avoiding her eyes, He always was a terrible liar. "Yeah, it'll be fine." 

She tries to make eye contact, tilting her head a bit trying. "Are _you_ alright?" 

"I'm fine–"

"Is this still about Sam?"

He clammed up for a moment, caught off guard. As much as he still wasn't over Sam, as much as he still thought about her, he really wishes that was all that was on his mind right now. He _wishes_ it were just Sam.

"It's not her, really."

"Really?" Her voice got pitchy, like she clearly, obviously didn't believe him. And why would she? Sam-related woes are what had been the majority of his problems up until a week ago.

_"Yes."_

He says it with a little more bite than he ought to, but he didn't need everyone thinking he was this torn up over a girl. He feels a little worse at her expression.

"Sorry, I'm just, I've been a little stressed out lately."

Aisha looked over her shoulder, at the students gratefully packing their bags and leaving in a slight but noticeable rush. "Today probably didn't help."

"No, it didn't."

They share a dry laugh, the situation with Kreese apparently not having fully settled yet. Maybe it would take few hours to process what just happened, or why it happened. Miguel quickly shrugs the feeling off before it has a chance to settle in the forefront of his thoughts again. "How about a rain-check for that? Tomorrow or something? I'm so exhausted right now I'll probably go home and pass out." 

She smiled. "Yeah, for sure. Remember, just call me. I'm usually home, and it's not like I really have anywhere to be, as of late." He understood what she meant. After the All-Valley fest, her and Sam hadn't been on speaking terms either for obvious reasons, and Aisha was still mad at her about the commercial. 

"Yeah, I know. We'll do it tomorrow, ice cream, on me."

Her grin widens, and Miguel mimics her happiness. "Ouh, alright. I _like_ that." Her eyes abruptly fell somewhere behind his shoulder, looking beyond him, and Miguel turned automatically. 

At the back of the room, Kreese was standing against the wall, looking past Aisha and right to him. Miguel didn't look away.

—

When he got in the house was quiet, not even any sound of the television; no telenovelas or cooking shows to lighten the tenseness in his shoulders. Usually he'd slump down on the couch or linger in the kitchen with her, watching her stir whatever was on the stove or poke at something in the oven, humming and flitting around the kitchen asking him about school or girls or friends. No smell of her cooking today, which would normally be thickening up the room at this point, building in a delicious and soothing way that was unique only to her. Somehow she always got it perfect even if she was trying something new; it still always tasted good. 

He let his gym bag slip away from his hand as he fell onto his bed, thinking of every event of the past twelve or so hours in a million different ways that made sleep a fitful impossibility. Eventually he gave up. His mouth was dry and the sun had moved some distance across the sky since he'd last been in there, now shining in his eyes through his partially closed curtain. He looks over at the clock, reading a quarter to three. His throat feels gravely and his head feels weighed down, but with the feeling in his throat was ultimately outweighing his residual tiredness, he slowly turns over, getting up from his bed and making a beeline for the hallway.

Originally, he’d gone to get a glass of water, but he needed to pass by his abuela's room to get to the kitchen. Her door was open, and curiosity always got the better of him.

She was sleeping, or was trying to, with all the fitful movements like she couldn’t quite get comfortable. Immediately he regrets looking in because all a once the ache in his chest was back, all the recent drama of the day crumbling away under the weight of another very depressing reality. Maybe this is what Tory had been talking about. He vividly remembered his sensei saying something to the same idea before the tournament, and post-tournament attitude or not, Johnny had a point.

_"The world shows no mercy, why should we?"_

He regretted going so hard on that kid during the sparring match. He didn't deserve his misplaced anger and Miguel hated look on Kreese's face when he'd done it so willingly, even before he'd repeated that stupid mantra to them. It was hard to find goodness in the way life ultimately fucks with you when he was here staring it in the face. 

Both sensei and Tory, both of them, had a point. Life kicks you in the teeth and doesn’t let up when you’re already down. Life shows no mercy. Lately it had felt like he’d been drowning in his own confusion and regret, everything intent on suffocating him. He hated this. He hated seeing his abuela like this. 

Maybe he could help. It was in the book for a reason, _right?_ He just needed to do something about it instead of waiting around.

He marched back to his room, where a familiar sight was sitting by the open window, like it knew. 

And maybe it did. 

He swallowed. 

It flew towards him, through the window and hovering above his nose in it's usual manner. 

“You know where that tree is, don't you? You knew about all this.” Its chittering was quieter. Miguel felt like he could snap it in half between his clenched teeth. 

“Take me there. Take me there or I'm going to throw you against the wall, you understand?” 

He stood in front of it, the feeling in his chest spreading down towards his feet, prompting him to move. He neglected to remember the sweater draped on his desk. Too much adrenaline. Too much haste. Without much thinking he crawled out the open window, feet landing in the dirt garden that his Yaya never got around to putting flowers in. Another bitter reminder.

“We're leaving now.”

He looked back a moment, the fairy lingering behind in his room. “You're going to take me to find what I need, and that's the end of it.” 

—

 

He didn't think he'd ever seen a tree like this before. The opening in the trunk was nearly as tall as him, the branches above his head arching up like the legs of a spider, some of them embedded in the ground. He'd read about how the tree could keep living for centuries because the branches keep it alive, acting like secondary trunks. Allow it to start over in a way, again and again. 

It could live forever.

Miguel looked down at his shoes that were quickly becoming weighted down with mud. The ground surrounding the tree was squishy, his heels disappearing into the earth as if it had rained some time ago.  Approaching the opening in the trunk, little bugs fluttered around him; blue-tinted dragonflies and tiny, floating specks of light hovering above his face like glowing dust.  

He ducks inside, and crawled through the narrow space that barely left enough room on either side of him. Inside the tree was muddy, very wet and humid, and to Miguel's dismay, full of crawling, winged insects that seemed to inhabit every square inch. 

Worms were wriggling between his fingers, and he had to consciously shake off the squeamishness of being enclosed in such a space, focused on just moving forward through the wet dirt, crawling further along until the tree opened up in front of him, and he could finally stand again. 

Miguel had to swallow a gasp, his breath having gotten caught in his throat. 

The creature, intimidatingly close despite its significant distance from him, sat in the middle of a clearing. Toad-faced and ugly, it appeared much like an over sized lizard with its sagging skin and horizontal, slit-like mouth. It stood huge enough that Miguel's nerve climbed back down, laying low and useless in the pit of his stomach. Nervously, he inhaled, the smell of wet soil and rotting greenery heavy in his throat.  

“H-Hola.” 

The thing huffed, breathing deeply like it smelled him. Miguel swallowed, trying to steady his voice. “Necesito lo que está en el árbol, mi abuela está emfermas.” 

There was a worm spasming over the back of his hand, which he quickly flung off. He was never good with bugs and this was a claustrophobic, insect ridden nightmare. The gigantic and drooling reptile was just another inconvenience. 

“No le háre daño al árbol.” 

 _I know you care about it,_ he tries to say. _I know you protect it and I won't hurt it, I promise._

It didn't move. Unless you'd count forwards, an action that had Miguel's feet dragging back, ready to scoot himself backwards at any sudden movement and beat it out of there. 

There’s a stare down, Miguel’s eyes not leaving the creature’s face. He could hear the noises churning in it's gut, the breathing and every little noise or shrill buzzing of the bugs inside narrow expanse he'd stupidly dragged himself into. 

“You don't scare me.” He tried. 

He could put up a front until he figured out a plan. He needed to trick it into letting him in. Words weren't doing it. Maybe unlike the fairy, it didn't understand Spanish or any other words that came out of his mouth. It understood actions. To it, he was an unwelcome intruder upon the thing it protected. 

As much as he willed his mind to formulate a plan, it wasn't working. 

His shoulder suddenly itched. His eyes darted to his immediate left, where an extremely large earwig was rapidly crawling inwards. He didn't have time to react to the stickly legs pittering across his skin nor the pincers that were way too close to his neck, before it was abruptly licked off. The tongue stuck a little, leaving a stinking, slimy mess on his shirt, and the bug was gone in an instant. Some ten feet away, the lizard swallows down the bug, licking around its mouth.  

Miguel's breathing quickened, eyes trained straight ahead, panic pumping through his body with every beat of his heart. There's a buzzing in his periphery, and a rather large insect suddenly collided with the lower half of his face, Miguel violently flinching away. He sputtered a little in his fit, producing a gob of saliva on the ground in disgust. His hand went up to wipe his mouth, eyes looking up in the process. The creature had shrunk back, slightly as if it were wary of what he'd just done. 

He frowned. Licked his lips. 

The lizard growled, puffing up. 

He tested it, and spit again on the ground in front of him. It flinched.

“You don't like that?”

No response, but the actions have said it all.

Miguel huffed out a laugh. Who would’ve thought? A germaphobe animal? The smile was not well received. The lizard came closer in a split second, back legs lunging forwards while Miguel did the only thing he could think of. 

He _spit._

It felt ridiculous. 

But it worked. 

It leapt back again, seemingly in pain at the spot where it hit, viciously shaking its head. There was no visible wound or injury, but it didn't attempt such a thing again. Human saliva caused it pain. Miguel stood up straighter, approaching it again slowly. Very slowly. 

“I’m not afraid of you, you understand? You don't scare me.” His feet made careful steps, circling with care around it, a wide gap in between it and him. “You're going to let me pass, and I'll get what I need without harming the tree, but you're going to let me pass by you.” 

It sat still. Very still and so incredibly huge compared to him, following his steps with its eyes.

“I'm not afraid of you.” He repeated. 

Miguel inched closer, a tenseness evident. For good measure, he spit again, immediately creating an extra few feet of distance between him and it. 

He could feel the mud squishing beneath his shoes, and grimaced at the soppy, oozy gunk where that thing had previously lay. Hundreds of bugs, many he'd never recalled seeing before, moving through the dirt and crawling along the wood. Miguel blinked, a realization coming to him. There was no source of sunlight visible this far into the earth, but everything appeared as if lit from within, the wood, the dirt, the lizard itself, all visible far past what was normal for pupils adjusting to the dark. Colours and details were all there. 

Where _was_ the light? 

There was a noise in front of him like the thing was getting impatient, and his eyes landed back to the clearing. Miguel kept wide breadth between him and the oversized reptile, pulse slowly winding down once he'd made it into the pathway, having avoided any uncertain harm. He didn't turn his back to it until he was out of sight. Slowly, he kept going until he reached what he'd needed in the first place. Above him, through the gap in the wood where the trunk opened up to reveal the sky, the sun wasn't visible anymore. Just the sky, clouded over in a blue-grey mush. 

A part of the tree remained untouched by insects or anything else, a layered and perfectly clean spot of foliage. Like a little tree in itself. He ventured closer, inspecting the beginnings of growth. It looked like the one from the book, the same lavender-coloured flowers and spade-shaped leaves protruding from the dirt. Much like one would a carrot, he grasped the closest part to the soil and gently pulled, the thing appearing bit by bit out of the dirt until there was no more resistance, the whole thing coming out in front of him. It was a stout, fattened thing with long tendrils near the bottom, the two thickened roots branching off the middle like legs and a long torso. With its yellowish skin and odd appearance, it looked similar to the ones his mother would bring home from the store. A ginseng root, was it? He doubted these were the same things. 

Tucking it under his arm, he maneuvers through an opening in the tree climbing up through the branches until he could feel the heat of the dwindling sun. All at once, he felt like his eardrums would shatter, and brought both hands up to his ears, sending the root tumbling back down the narrow space of the trunk. 

“Ah!” Miguel scrunched up his face in pain, ears ringing in the aftermath, his heartbeat prominent in his chest. There was no more loud sound, but he’d realized he'd dropped the poor thing. 

He looked down, into the void.

“Fuck," He mumbled, trying to seek out the plant some ten feet below. Carefully, he descended the tree again, dropping back down into the partial darkness. Miguel picked up the root by the thick leaves, talking to it under his breath. “Shit, are you okay?” He looks it over for any visible damage. He frowned. “Was that _you?”_

The root made a distinct, indiscernible noise. He nearly dropped it again. Like an infant, it was squeeing and cooing away while the roots became animated, swaying and curling slightly at the edges as if it were trying to reach out and touch Miguel's forearm. 

He smiled, bewildered. “Hey...” 

Babbling from a barely visible mouth, it looked up at him through outlines of a tiny, squished in face and eyes. It looked strange, like one of those things that resembles a face where there isn't one; like an imprint on the clouds or in the folds of fabric. Then again, could a root with a face ever look normal? Why on earth did the thing _scream?_

Maybe it had a sensitivity to outdoor air. It _was_ in the ground. Or maybe it didn't like the light. Whatever it was, he needed to get it home without it shrieking again, lest it deafened him this time. 

He looked down at himself. He only had his t-shirt on, way too warm to have taken a hoodie. He sighed. It would have to do. What is he supposed to do, stuff it under his clothes? Put it in his pocket? He supposed he wouldn't look too out of place biking home without a shirt on, guys on his block did it all the time when it got too hot. Pulling it over his head, he carefully wrapped the root inside, barring no light or outside air to touch it. Cradling it in one arm, he climbed back up the tree, reaching to top with the absence of any screaming. With some difficulty, his feet were back on the ground, dirt still sodden with the rain. 

Miguel was beyond exhausted. Leaning heavily on the trunk with his heart thumping away in his chest, he stood and breathed the air outside, reveling in the wide, unrestricted space around him. The little bundle was tucked into the nook of his elbow, cozy and content. 

—

Taking the side streets made it a whole thirty minutes longer, but with the state he was in, Miguel didn’t want to be seen by the normal traffic that frequented LA streets. He parked his bike in the rack, and looked down at himself. 

He was filthy. Being covered with mud, bug innards, shallow lacerations and smears of sticky goop made quite a sight. He made sure to kick his shoes off outside the door, way too much of a mess to be brought indoors. With some hesitance, he unlocked the door to his apartment and cautiously stepped inside. His abuela, sick or not, would undoubtedly be demanding to know where he'd been and why he looked like he'd crawled out of a pit in hell. Not to mention, the thing he was he carrying so oddly in his arms would raise suspicion. 

His mother however, he thought would be out still, for some reason. He didn't think. Her sharp and displeased gasp made him wince.

“Miguel!” His mouth opened, but no words came out. “What happened to you! Look at you, you’re filthy! Where have you been?” She is over in an instant, looking him over with the urgency that seems to be uniquely present in all mothers. “Where did you go?” 

“Uh, the trails, I accidentally ran over a root and fell off my bike.” As if for embellishment he points to the door, the untarnished bike some kind of poor testament to his lie.

“You’re all cut up, your arms," She looked at the bundle, and frowned. “What... why did you take your shirt off?”

He couldn’t say he found something. What the hell was he supposed to show her? Would the root talk to her like it did to him, or would it just look like he’d been stealing weird vegetables from the grocery store?

“I... got too hot.” He needed to leave, quickly. I– ”

Her mood soured instantly, confusion to aggression in a few seconds, waving her hand dismissively. “Look, I don’t have time for whatever this is. I need to go to work and you need to clean up.” She scrunches up her nose, walking past him and stuffing her keys into her purse, before stopping at the front door. “You smell _awful,_ go take a shower and make sure your abuela is okay. Make her some tea with honey in an half an hour, and make sure she takes the medications that are on her desk.” 

He turned slowly, following her movements and cautious of anything that might send more dirt to the floor. The root hasn’t made a sound, and he doesn’t dare look at it, as if acknowledging it would send her into a fit of nosy curiosity. 

“I’m _sorry_.”

Tension hung between them, a one-sided stare down between mother and son. “Don’t go to wherever you were again, I’ll be done at 5.” She opens the door and steps out, leaving Miguel alone in the kitchen. 

He swallows his retort. Her anger hurt. After a moment of looking at the closed door, he retreats to the bathroom. 

—

 

He sat on the couch watching mindless TV until 9:30, and the golden light shining through his windows had dwindled down to shadows. The moon was hanging in the window; a bright, fat seed in the starless sky. He remained there for a moment, peering outside and watching the clouds roll by in the wind, framing the moon in a very picturesque way. 

A few hours prior, he'd put it in his closet. When he opened it again, there it sat on the floor as still as when he'd left it. Thankfully there was no deafening noise to be found once he'd unwrapped it, but admittedly he was a little concerned with how quiet it was. When he poked it, the legs swayed as if waking. It cooed, and Miguel smiled at the thing, all plump and ridiculous looking. He held it up in front of his face, swaddled up in a small towel. 

“You're gonna make my Yaya better. Okay?”  

More noises. 

The only problem was, where would he keep it? He would need to hide it someplace she would never look. 

_In the back of her closet?_

_Underneath her bed?_

Under her bed seemed the least conspicuous. He assembled it, wrapping it loosely in cloth and placing it into its small bowl. He wasn't sure how this would fair in a few days, when the blood might start to dry and congeal, how the smell of it in an enclosed, stuffy room would be to everyone's nose. He didn't care to do more research on how it might magically keep. The book said for it to work, one needed a small amount of the retriever's own blood.The thought of slicing open his hand was quite enough. One thing that'd bugged him about that book though, is that he couldn't remember reading some of those things before. He'd come to look at it again, almost assuming he must've missed something since his brain didn't register anything familiar. He could have sworn the passage about the root was different. He just hoped that it worked.

He wandered out into the hallway and peeked into her room. She was sleeping again. A bit fitfully, but still sleeping. With everything in place he slowly wedged himself in the shallow space underneath her bed, the root in one hand and a knife in his back pocket. 


	4. Ulterior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Every day you get a little bit closer... you'll speak, and they’ll listen to every word.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not have a beta for my stories. If you see an error, please inform me. I use grammarly but I occasionally still miss something.

 “You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him.”

_— Malcolm S. Forbes_

 

He had woken up a few times during the night, feeling both thirsty and having the bandage around his hand slip off, finally loosely securing the blood-soaked thing with medical tape. The affected arm hung off his bed, no blood on the carpeted floor but on his sheets, his face shoved sideways in his pillow, groggy as hell and struggling to fall back asleep while on the precipice of waking. 

He breathed in deeply, an action muffled by his one nostril smushed closed. What time was it?

It was a Saturday. A weekend. Which meant no class, normally. However, Saturdays don’t fall under the umbrella of rest days according to Kreese.

He sat up, wincing from the momentary dizzy spell, pain shooting up his arm as he lifted himself up on both hands. He hissed, lifting the banged hand off the bed, carefully unravelled the cut, grimacing as it stuck a little to the skin underneath. It was mostly clotted, somewhat scabbed over at this point and slightly itchy where the skin had turned soft from under the bandages. There was a bit of a déjà vu feeling as he looked at the clock beside his bed. He'd slept till almost eleven. Why hadn't nobody woken him? What time was class again, 1? He figured he had a few hours to kill anyway.

His phone buzzed. Aisha's name popped up in the notification bar, with a good morning text.

—

“Took you long enough.” Aisha stood in the sand, a little ways away from the lapping waves that had practically eaten the shore.

“Sorry, had to do a few things around the house before I left.” The boardwalk was already hot under his bare feet, and he immediately regretted taking off his shoes when he stepped into the sand. He winced, “It's  _hot_.”

“Yeah, it’s like breaching 104° today. Put your shoes back on.” She glanced down to his flip flops, Miguel realizing stupidly what hand they were currently in, the bandages a glaring, still-stained call to attention. “Uh, what happened to your hand?”

He looked down like he was just discovering it. Like he hadn’t known at all until she pointed it out. “Oh, uh, I cut myself making dinner yesterday.”

“Oh.” She came closer, and Miguel busied himself by throwing his shoes to the sand, feet slipping into them. She looked behind him for a moment, a line of sight he traced back to the little blue shack some ways away. “Perfect ice cream weather, don’t you think?”

He grinned. “I did promise. Nothing quite like post-torture sugar.”

Her eyebrows raised, mouth curling up in a very ‘can you believe it’ sort of way. There's another moment of solidarity between them, and Aisha finally asked the question that Miguel had been waiting for. “What d’ya think of sensei Kreese?”

And Miguel could think of nothing other than to answer honestly. “I don't like him.”

Once again, they're a continuum of each other's internal thought.

“Me neither.” 

Miguel smiled. Aisha smiled.

“He's a little too…”

“Brutal.” Miguel finished for her.

“I was gonna say strict, but you're right. Also, if I ever find out who was responsible for actually ruining Mr. LaRusso’s dojo, I'm going to _personally_ kick their ass, as a thank you for yesterday.”

The door chimed behind them and the monotony of the noonday heat was broken by a small window air conditioner. 

Aisha eyed the curved glass, examining the dozen or so ice cream labels. “What’re you getting?”

Miguel scanned them, a few flavours popping out at him. Black cherry seemed interesting. Banana, maybe. “No idea.”

She looked up to the attendant, a friendly-looking Hispanic woman with curly hair, lightened blonde at the tips. “May I please have a single scoop of moose tracks? In a waffle cone.”

Miguel's eyes drifted left. “And I'll have a scoop of banana, in a sugar cone, please.” Miguel slid a twenty over the counter and discarded the rest of the change in the nearby paper cup. He wondered if the girl got to keep it all to herself, or if she had to share. He smiles in goodbye, and the door chimed again with their passing, the humidity seeming even worse than before.

Aisha pointed in the direction of the sea. “Let's walk along the boardwalk, there's a breeze at least.”

There was a dull throbbing in his temples, but he figured that was from the heat and possibly dehydration. Miguel was sweating already. He hated that about himself, how much he sweat. It was annoying at best, and rather embarrassing at worst. Very inconvenient when you want to put your arm around a girl.

“How long do you think sensei Lawrence will be gone for? I really hope that it's not too long, I like his training methods a lot better.”

“Yeah,” He thought for a moment, licking a drip off his cone. “Don't you think a lot of his stories about the war are–”

She laughed. “Bullshit?”

“A little, I mean, they don't really add up. I'm not crazy here, right?”

“Nope. You happen to see that picture he was hanging last yesterday, in the office?”

“No.”

“It was him in a military uniform. I  _think_ it said Vietnam?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I kinda wondered why he was hanging that in sensei’s office, but who knows. Maybe he’s the prideful type. He likes his stories.”

Miguel didn't think that was too far fetched. He seemed to take a lot of pride in killing people for whatever reason. Maybe he didn't have any other accomplishments to feel much pride about. No kids to brag about, no other formal education, no hot trophy wife twenty years his junior. If he needed to brag, he guessed that was the only thing to bring up.

“I don't like how he expects us to do things just because he asks. Sensei doesn't treat us that. Not really. I mean he always has a reason, but with Keese it’s like there isn’t a reason beyond him telling us to." 

For Miguel, it left a bad taste in his mouth. Obedience for obedience sake never sat well with him. 

Aisha shrugged. “Maybe it comes with the territory. The military doesn't exactly leave room for opinions or free will.”

But there was another statement burning on Miguel's tongue. Something he desperately wanted her opinion on. “Don't you think he takes that no mercy stuff a little too far?”

She shrugged again. “I don't know. He's tougher than sensei Lawrence, that's for sure.”

“No kidding.”

“But I don't think he means any harm." She countered, sounding thoughtful about it. "Didn't sensei say that he was really tough on their class? Maybe it's all that military training. He’s probably used to that way, but I agree, it’s a huge difference between them. I guess it'll take some getting used to.” Miguel nibbled at his cone while Aisha spoke. “Sensei Lawrence will be back soon, and by then I'm sure everything will return to normal.”

“Hope so.” The wind blew particularly hard, and Miguel could feel a slight mist from the waves a few feet from them. It felt nice. Too nice. “I really didn't wanna go to class today,” Miguel mumbled into his ice cream. “I might just blow it off.”

Aisha laughed a little bit this time. “Well, it is a Saturday. I think you're allowed to be lazy today if you really want to.” 

It wasn't so much the opportunity of being lazy that made the thought of skipping out so inviting, it was the idea of checking up on that root under his abuela's bed. At this point he was checking on it as much as he could, looking for any signs of things going one way or another. 

“Yeah.” The subtle ache in the sides of his head suddenly intensified a significant degree, enough to make him wince, chin tucking into his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Ah, god.”

Aisha turned her head. “You okay?”

“My head really hurts all the sudden.”

“Brainfreeze? Lick the top of your mouth.”

Miguel crumples up a little more, folding into himself. “Fuck, this hurts.”

She looked sideways at him, her head tilted as she looked him over. “Maybe you’re overheating, you should probably sit down for a bit, alright?” Worried mother mode now engaged, Aisha took him by the arm and tried to quickly lead him off the boardwalk to take shelter underneath some trees. He plopped down on the grass, Aisha having taken his half-finished ice cream cone from his hand before it fell to the mercy of the ants below.

“Just take it easy for a bit.”

He rubbed his temples, hoping that the sudden pressure building there might be helped. “Maybe I'm dying.” He lamented. “In such an event, I give you ownership of all my Nintendo games, my laptop, all my posters, and my board.”

“Great.”

His head went between his knees, something his mother always did when she was nauseous. The pain blooming behind his eyelids was intensifying. “I'm dying.” He repeated.

“Uh, should I call my mom? She can pick us up here... I really don't think you should bike home, even if it's only 10 minutes. You don't look so good, dude.” She had pitched the mostly-melted ice cream cone sometime between his death proclamation and his pseudo-will. “Do you need to puke?”

“No.”

“I'm gonna go get you some water, okay? Stay here.”

“Sure.”

The headache had now moved entirely from his temples to behind his eyes in full force. This was terrible. Was it the heat? The sugar? A curse? Aisha's feet appeared in the space between his knees in record time.

“You doing okay?”

He blinked a few times, and as if in those few seconds something snapped, the pain abruptly stopped.

“Miguel?”

He looked up, squinting against the sun where Aisha stood. “Yeah, I think. The pain’s gone now.”

She nodded, somewhat wary. “You know, my mom gets that sometimes. It's like a really short migraine.” She just barely scrunches up her nose. “Maybe it's stress?” 

He was reeling a little. This felt bizarre. “May-be.”

She handed him the water, and although his thirst wasn't a pressing issue at the moment, he gulps a few mouthfuls down.

“Okay well, just hang tight a little bit. I uh, called my mom anyway.” Her mouth flattened out a bit. “Sorry.”

“No, it's okay, really. I don't exactly feel like biking in the heat.”

She sat down beside him, watching him nurse the bottle of water. “Maybe you should stay home today. I think sensei Kreese said we were doing more one on one today, and uh, I don't think you could handle a kick to the head right now.”

Miguel shrugged off her concern, “I'll go,” He looked out into the road, headache now just a daunting memory. “I feel okay now.”

“You sure? I mean, nobody wouldn't blame you if you did.”

“I’m fine, really. It’s probably just the heat. I’ll be fine once I’m not under a boiling sun.”

She resisted the urge to put a hand against his forehead. “If you’re sure. Who knows, maybe today will be easier on us.”

Miguel kinda scoffed, a somewhat bitter feeling coming over him. He didn’t necessarily want to hate Kreese, but it was getting increasingly frustrating trying to live under some weird ideals he constantly threw at them, and disregard everything their real sensei taught them. Miguel wanted to voice all of this, to continue the tirade against him that had been previously building up, but all he manages is a tiny shrug of feigned indifference.

“Somehow, I doubt it.”

—

“Combat.”

They did this every day. Every day Johnny was gone. Tory was up against one of the Asshole Twins, who by now was dragging himself all over the corners of the mat, evidently having been hit in the chest one too many times. But that was normal now. Sensei Kreese was not one to prohibit any kind of full force contact; if anything he encouraged it. If you weren't bleeding or limping a little by the end of it, you were lucky.

Finally, Tory landed the third hit. Miguel was quick to raise the flag.

“Point.”

A pause, with Miguel silently revelling in the fact that it was over for the poor kid.

“Hit him again.”

Tory's head snapped up, and Miguel for one second thinks he miscounted. That was three hits, yes? Two for Asshole Twin No.1, and three for Tory, _right?_

“Did you hear me? I said hit him again.”

But apparently her head had been consumed by the same thoughts as Miguel’s currently was, and maybe everyone else at this point had also come to the same questions, because Tory wasn't moving. Not one bit, unless you’d count her back and forth looks between Kreese and the kid on the ground. She hesitated, stood abnormally frozen at the order, and by the look on Kreese’s face, the absolute disbelief at it all  _-like how dare you not jump when I say jump-_ he was getting impatient.

“Do you have a problem with that?”

By the look on her face, she certainly did. “I already scored the last point–”

He cut her off. “A fight isn't over until your enemy is finished. You show your enemy no mercy.”

Miguel swallowed the building feeling in his gut. This wasn't right, was sit? Not what sensei had been teaching them. There was no honour in being too rough, too brutal, mercilessly cruel. There just wasn't. What was the point? Was therea point?

“Wait!” Heads turned towards him, and for a moment it was like his voice was outside his body; he almost felt the urge to whip his head towards the sound that was coming from his own mouth. Tory froze in place, her knee centimetres away from the other kid’s nose. Miguel found his voice again. “This isn't what Sensei Lawrence has been teaching us.”

“Excuseme?” Miguel wasn't sure Kreese had even been spoken back to before. The absolute disbelief would indicate a definite no.

“It’s not even proper protocol, this isn't allowed in competition, you'd be disqualified. Tory scored a point, it’s done.”

He kept his eyes on Kreese, although he could see Tory’s expression in his peripheral; the initial confusion mirrored in her eyes and the undercurrent of something that he couldn't quite place. Did she think he was brave, or stupid? Kreese’s gait was demanding, a slow walk towards him that the other students cleared a path for. Miguel didn't duck his head down; instead, he ever so slightly tilted his chin towards the ceiling, a small but obvious act of rebellion.

In the back of his mind, familiar words ghosted back.

_You don't scare me._

_“_ You want to repeat that, Mr. Diaz?”

“It's over, she scored a point. That's it. We haven't been taught to fight like that.”

“Of course not. Sensei Lawrence is right in that regard. In a tournament, the fighting stops when you land a point. Can you see the fallacy in this?”

Miguel, for a moment, felt rather stupid in his bout of silence.

“In the real world Mr. Diaz, it's not about scoring points. It’s victory and defeat, winners and losers, life and death.”

Miguel wasn't about to say anything more to that particular sentiment, just started him down right back like Kreese was doing to him; that unflinching, relentless glare that he always used on them since the moment he arrived. He was like a child being told no, he couldn’t handle it. Why did Johnny trust this guy? Friend or not, what worth was there in lessons like this? Be ostentatiously brutal and never let your guard down for anything?

“If you want to start being high and mighty about this, I highly suggest you look into your motivations.”

Miguel glared, air forcefully leaving his nose. “There's no honour in being merciless. What other reason do I need?”

Kreese openly balked at that, the creases in his forehead becoming all the more prominent in his disbelief. “Honour? Is that what you think this is? Bowing down and showing mercy to an enemy is  _honour?_ ”

“What is then? Fighting to the death?”

His voice was harder than it should be, but like the puffing, fat lizard, this was just useless intimidation. Kreese didn't know anything about him. He couldn't be pushed around, he wouldn't allow it. He wasn't someone who’d just orders without question.

And nobody else should, either.

“I'm afraid you're mistaken. The only honourable death is one that's gone down fighting. Otherwise, it's merely cowardice parading as virtue.”

Miguel stood straighter. “I'm not a coward.”

_You don't scare me._

“I didn’t say you were, but suit yourself Mr. Diaz. I assure you, that stubbornness will come back to bite you.”

—

As he got off his bike at the little corner store, there were four new texts from Aisha, and two from Hawk, all concerning his little speech. Hawk was somewhat incredulous at it all, as was Aisha. However, he could tell that hers was more born of genuine concern, rather than him unabashedly going against their newly-appointed sensei. He'd left class as soon as he got the chance, peddling over to the  _second closest_ convenience store. He'd just wanted something to drink but god forbid he hung around that particular strip mall any longer. He wasn't exactly itching for any useless conversation  _or_  stupid questions of why he did what he did. 

He swung open the door, an unfamiliar man guarding the counter and lending to the feeling of a world that had inexplicably turned itself inside out in a matter of a few weeks. He did feel silly at the fact that something as dumb as a familiar store clerk could provide him with some semblance of comfort, but he couldn't really help it, Gómez was a friendly face. He made a beeline for the back fridges and their bright, neon-white lights. Miguel's eyes scanned the glass bottles, the reflection of the door opening catching his attention. Behind him, the door chimed again and in the glass he could see someone else walk briskly into the aisle behind him. On instinctual curiosity, he looked back at them and almost immediately regretted doing so. 

None other than Robby Keene, whose glare held such disdain that Miguel almost winced. Quickly he turned back to the fridge, now well aware of his presence and sincerely uncomfortable. He settled on a bottle of blue Gatorade, and by the time he turned back around his hopes that Robby was gone were dashed. Feeling beyond awkward, he lingered somewhat behind him at the counter, eyes darting to the floor, the walls, the snacks, anything but the boy in front of him. 

There was a soft kind of whispy sound, and as Miguel looked own he realized a 20$ note was now by his feet, likely dropped without him knowing. Robby was already on his way to leaving but Miguel still picked it up, intending to return it nonetheless. He hurriedly paid for his soda, stuffing it in his bag and quickly heading outside where Keene stood against the wall, smoking what Miguel initially thought was a cigarette until the familiar smell had made it to his nose. 

“Hey...”

He turned, the brief, curious expression slipping entirely from his face. “What do you want?” 

Miguel extended his hand. “Uh, you dropped this.” 

Robby looked as if he'd offended him, but what else was new. “DidI?” 

“Yeah?”  

His eyebrows raised. “Or did you just get caught pickpocketing me?” He quickly snatched it from him. 

Miguel bit back the urge to mimic the sneer on Robby's face. “Excuse me?” 

Robby took a step forward, quickly snatching it from him. Miguel backed up a step or two for good measure, although Robby just came closer, halfway to pinning him against the wall where he just stood. 

“Listen, Robby–” 

“You here to return the medal of honour, too?”

“The  _what?”_

“Go to hell. You know exactly what you did. Or lemme guess, you had nothing to do with ruining our demonstration at the All-Valley either? 

"No... I–"

"You guys are such  _losers."_

Miguel's eyebrows creased in realization. “I didn't have anythingto do with that. Look, I'm sorry for what happened but–”  

“Bullshit,”Miguel’s back hit the wall as Robby held a threatening finger in front of his face, thankfully not the one holding the still-lit joint. “You leave our dojo alone, and you leave Sam alone, got it? She doesn't need you calling her and begging pathetically.” There was a slight smugness to his tone that had Miguel's cheeks heating up, a bitterness coiling tightly in his gut and turning his placid caution into a brief moment of stupidity. 

He swatted away Robby's hand. “I'll talk to her if I want to, you aren't in charge of her.” 

Robby tossed the roach to the ground, both arms now slightly tensed at his sides, ready to strike. “You just don't know when to back off, do you? Leave her alone, she wants zero to do with you, so get over it.” 

Miguel swallowed his retort, trying to stop the antsy feeling from making its way from the middle of his chest outwards into his hands, where he would undoubtedly conjure up the nerve to strike him across the face. He tried to suppress that instinct. The same instinct he'd built up over those months before the All-Valley and subsequently drove away Sam. A near-automatic response that sensei had told him to control, lest he made the same stupid mistakes as he did. Miguel thought, Sensei didn't fight Mr. Larusso, so why should he give in now, into what was taunting him? Falling to this kind of shallow provocation seemed akin to weakness, and he  _wasn't_  weak. Not after all this time. 

Robby stared back at him, before turning and leaving Miguel to lean against the wall, trying to exhale the adrenaline that was currently squeezing the air out of his lungs. 

 

[Soundtrack Starts - Click](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=biY7R9iX9P4)

Hopping on his bike again, he only managed to make it a few minutes into the trek home, before he nearly sends himself flying off his in his urgency to stop. An animal, some ten feet from him, was sitting off to the side of the road, close to a green expanse of trees that he recognized as the Los Angeles River, a stretch of path leading into the woods where he and Eli would sometimes ride their bikes.

A rather unassuming fox sat there on the edge of the grass, unmoving. 

He'd never seen one like that before, just pure white and with a big, fluffy tail that seemed impossibly thick. It inched its way towards Miguel’s bike, and he looked around at the few people surrounding him, to if any of their eyes are drawn to the same unusual sight. But no, just him. He squinted, the afternoon sun shining in his eyes. The fox and its thick tail suddenly became a fox with  _many_ tails as it shook out, splaying them out at all angles; nine fluffy, white tails behind its back like a peacock. Miguel slowly disentangled himself from his bike, leaving it to rest against the nearest tree while he walked cautiously towards it, seeing if it would flee. It didn't bother to move until he could almost touch it, and when it flinched away, dodging his outstretched hand and fleeing some feet away, it hung back at the edge of the treeline, waiting for him to follow again.

He shook his head, speaking under his breath. “You too? What do  _you_  want?”

It was still. No sound, but it's beckoning was a clear message behind its actions. Miguel just walked behind it, keeping minimal distance between him and it, as it took him closer and into the forest. Its pace increased until he was barely keeping up, following the glimpses of white from the nine appendages trailing after it. In his haste he nearly lost his footing on a protruding root, coming close to bashing himself into a tree in the process of avoiding a mouthful of dirt. Miguel looked back, unsure of how to properly retrace his steps and get back to the road. He gnawed on his lip, anxiety getting the best of him. He felt dumb to let himself get lost in the woods following an animal like  _Alice in Wonderland._  When he looked ahead of him, squinting a little to make out objects in the distance, he couldn't see the fox anymore.

“Hey,” He called out to it, softly at first. “Where'd you go? I'm back here!”

He felt even dumber doing that. 

“Hey!” His voice carried far, but nothing answered. 

He groaned.

Weaving carefully through the trees, there was still no sight of the white fur. The semi-dense foliage opened up ahead of him and he jogged towards the expanse, eager to get out of the woods.

With no canopy of leaves to cover the sky the sun poured in from above, the only growth in the clearing being a sickly-looking oak in its centre focus. In it, something had begun moving, as if the bark itself was shifting along the trunk. The sun shined through in yellow-white streaks, and the moving bark blooms into a brilliant green before his eyes, the patterns shifting into a large, slithering entity that nearly overtook the entire tree.

Miguel stood motionless. 

“Don't be afraid.”

He blinked, once again rendered speechless. Was he dreaming?

 _No,_ he thought.  _You weren't dreaming before, you're not dreaming now._

The snake weaved its head out from its place between its body, draped loosely around a branch; a large, thick appendage that still pales in comparison to the serpent's unfathomable size. It speaks again, a distinctive, feminine voice. 

“You shouldn't follow something if you don't know where it's going.”

Miguel frowned. “What?”

“The White Fox,” Its body extended more, still a non-threatening distance from Miguel but close enough that he can look into its eyes. “Following blindly, without a second thought, can be dangerous. You shouldn't make such mistakes. Especially foxes... you know what they say about them, they're tricksters. It got you lost, didn't it?”

He swallowed, almost getting caught in his throat.

“Do I scare you, Miguel?”

His throat, any words that may have come to mind, had locked up. When he did finally speak, it came out as barely more than a hesitant, choked up whisper. “You know my name.”

It was closer now, the body gliding down the fat trunk of the tree, twisting and moving across the ground until they were nearly face to face. “It's good you came to me, I can't go to you like _it_ can.” The accent was a discernible, southeastern variant that dragged out her vowels in a pleasant way. As lovely as it was, Miguel stepped back a little, wary about the closing distance between them. “Don't run, I won't hurt you.”

Miguel's words came without much thought. “You could swallow me. Kill me... you could kill me.”

It chuckled. “I'm not particularly hungry, and  _you,_  you  _need_ to be alive, don't you understand? You're important, these things don't happen by accident.”

His breathing skipped, stuttering halfway over his words. “What's happening to me?”

“What was meant to happen.”

He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. “What's meant to happen?”

The forked tongue poked between its mouth. “I don't want to frighten you.”

Miguel watched as the sunlight reflected off the scales overlapping by the hundreds in perfect harmony. 

“You look so much like your father, do you know that?”

He looked to its face. Its eyes giant, glassy marbles embedded deeply in its head that reflected every bit of his own pained confusion right back at him. “I don't have a father,” He said. “We've never met.”

The scales were shifting again, closer and closer until he’s enclosed within them, a comforting warmth in the snugness that, despite his previous fears, made no attempt to take away his breath. He could feel it breathing, a slow expanding that just as slowly, contracted back into itself. 

“Do you want to see? Are you curious about him?”

His eyes nearly slid closed too long, an entirely different feeling taking over that made his bones feel like mud. “Yes.” 

“Then look." 

The sun’s glittering shine melted into pictures, Miguel's own boyish reflection becoming that of a grown man so similar to himself, as if he could trace the softness from his mother out of his own face and see so easily where his father’s sharper features had filled in the gaps.

“You see it?”

He stared, transfixed as the image slowly fades away, swiftly replaced by others that seamlessly move of their own accord, pictures of the past and future in the scales, images of Johnny, Eli, Robby, and even Sam, the image of her smiling face lingering in his sights. The entire garden around them seemed to glow, pulsing with golden light. 

“Every day you come a  _little bit closer_ , every day you've become a _little bit wiser_... and you've set off a chain,” The body slips its hold from around his ribs and down to his feet, trailing in the dirt and leaves. “You've made the lives around you what they are, one little bit at a time.”

His muscles felt like cold syrup, it was almost hard to move freely. He stood rooted to the spot, weighed down and drowsy. “I don't understand.”

“You hold so much more than you realize, don't you ever underestimate your words or your actions... each one has a place that's meant to be, each person that you meet, and the words that you speak.”

His eyes broke their fixation to the distance, and the sun felt as if it were penetrating his skin, burning hot to the muscle underneath. A strong pain blooms in his stomach, right under his ribs while a burning metallic smell makes its way up his throat. His nose felt drippy, and when he licked his lips there was a bitter taste on his teeth. 

"I..." He couldn't. 

“It might not seem like it now, but when the time comes, you'll speak, and they’ll listen to every word.”

The ground suddenly feels much closer.

_“Sleep now, little one."_

—

Daniel made it about ten steps towards the river before he stopped himself. 

It was as if something was off the minute his foot took that step forwards, as if a line had been crossed that made the air feel electric. He looked up towards the sky, half-expecting to see clouds converging overhead, but there was nothing. No clouds and still the same bright sun, but the air still felt off, it felt heavy. His hand reached up to rub his shoulder, becoming aware of how the strap of his bag bit into the skin.

He turned his head to the left, and his eyes almost immediately picked out the anomaly lying some twenty feet in the distance.

A dark motionless mound protruding from the grass, something that had a feeling of dread worming its way through his chest. He drops his bag, walking briskly over, the dark hair and clothes immediately registering familiar.

"Jesus...”

He put two fingers to the side of his neck, a breath of relief upon finding a steady, even pulse. As Daniel examined his head gingerly, there was a genuine fear of pulling his hand from his thick mass of hair and finding a bright red stain. Reluctantly he searched, finding no wound, no indication he'd knocked himself out somehow or been otherwise rendered unconscious by either blood loss or blunt trauma. He didn't appear to be hurt at all, as if he were only sleeping in the foliage.

He gently shook his shoulder. “Miguel. Miguel Diaz, Miguel wake up…”

He tapped gently on the sides of his face. The skin was warm, and Daniel figured that maybe he’d fainted from the heat. Steeling himself, he slipped his hands under the teen's ribs and legs, securing his stance before he slowly lifted him up, a flitter of embarrassment running through the forefront of his mind as the muscles in his back protested. He'd never been one to dabble in weightlifting even in his youth, but Miguel was tiny; he should be able to lift a teenager as small as him. Anthony, on the other hand, he stopped being able to lift comfortably a few years ago. He trod carefully through the ivy, thankful of the even terrain. God forbid he tripped or lost his footing on a hill and ended up throwing the kid to the ground. Miguel's head was bobbing against his forearm, tendrils of hair reaching for the ground as Daniel took careful steps back to his car.

The entire car ride, he was preoccupied between the road in front of him and how lifelessly Miguel's head was leaning against the seat. The kid had such dead weight that one bump in the road would likely send him slumping forwards. Daniel's cell phone was in his pocket. He debated calling 911, or just taking the kid straight to the hospital himself. He was breathing, almost like he'd been sleeping deeply. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was the world's heaviest sleeper and he'd just been dozing off this whole time. As Daniel weighed the options, none seeming too appealing, he recognized a familiar side road, and the speedometer reached a tentative 59mph.

—

When Miguel came around again, it felt much like whenever he'd woken up in the middle of the night. He felt disconnected from everything, and it took him a few seconds to gather that he wasn't in the woods anymore. He couldn't feel the ivy around him or the shade or the trees. He could hear the river, audible trickles of water to his left. The sun had shifted. Maybe it was evening now, but he couldn't feel it anymore. It was warm but he couldn't feel the sun. Miguel forced open his eyes, trying to swallow away the dryness in his throat.

He blinked. Sat up straight and got dizzy from the sudden shift in blood. He wasn't anywhere familiar. Miguel was halfway through contemplating a way to escape his kidnapping when Mr. LaRusso appeared in the doorway, holding a tray, a pitcher of water, and two glasses in one hand.

He looked more than relieved. “You're awake!” He put the tray down, stepping towards him with long, hurried strides. “Jesus, I was two minutes away from calling the hospital, you were out cold. What happened?”

Miguel's mouth gaped open a little, the forming words stuck in his throat. “I was on a walk.”

His confusion was mirrored on Daniel’s face. “You were really out of it when I found you, you're lucky you didn't get hurt. It's 104° today, you probably got sun poisoning.”

Miguel frowned. It's like he was chastising him as if he were a child. “I was just on for a walk.” He repeated, somewhat pouty.

Daniel looked him over, trying not to let that worried fatherly tone slip into his words again. He'd never spoken to Miguel that much, so lecturing him upon the first real conversation they had probably wasn't going to calm him down.

“I  _know_ but,” He handed him a glass of water. “Should've been more careful, is all.” He said, as gently as possible. The kid looked tired. He guessed he wasn't there for a session of kata and meditation. Don't know if Miguel even knewthe meaning of the word kata. “Practicing?” He offered.

Miguel paused, then nodded. “Yeah, out for a run. I stopped for a while to rest. Guess I got overheated.” As if to make his point, he downed the glass of water. “Thank you.”

Daniel nodded, curtly. “No problem. Are you hungry? I've got some watermelon in the fridge, the sugar might help if you feel dizzy.”

Miguel shook his head. “No, thank you, I'm fine now.” He stood up, a little waver in his stance that Daniel didn’t acknowledge verbally, but subtly steps closer in case the kid was to pass out again. He didn't need him dinging his head off something. Miguel looked about the room, eyes scanning the cream coloured walls lined with pictures before they landed on the running fountain, visible through the open door. “Where am I?”

Daniel’s face took on a mixed reaction, but quickly eased into a more pleasant expression when his eyes scanned the room. “Miyagi-do Karate.” He shrugs, feeling a bit sheepish. “It's just a personal dojo, really.” He hardly needed to mention his not-so-subtle rivalry with his sensei. Not to mention, the absolute disaster that this place looked a few days prior. There was still that little part of his brain seemed to ping at the idea, that Miguel may have been here before. Maybe.

_Had he?_

“Oh." He had already wandered a little ways away, looking around at the decorations lining the walls. His fingers traced the scrolls. “What do these say?”

Daniel once again, felt a somewhat oppressive surge of awkwardness, as if the words will somehow enrage the teen. He wondered if he'd seen the ad. Daniel grimaces a little at the memory. A waste of money and yet another bad PR incident, another proverbial kick to the gut for  _Daniel LaRacist._ He snapped back, Miguel still looking at him expectantly. “It's uh, just a mantra. Rule one, Karate for defense only.” He gestured to the adjacent scroll. “Rule two; look to rule one.”

He half expected Miguel to roll his eyes at the stupidity, how dumb it must sound to one of Johnny's students, but instead of a sneering frown, there was a small smile forming on his face. 

“Oh.”

There was another pause, less awkward than the last, but Daniel still struggled to fill the gaps. All the experience in car sales and customer negotiation still hadn't given him the ability to fill the silence. It felt a bit weird being around Miguel, the star pupil of Cobra Kai, someone that Daniel had never been a fan of since the All-Valley. Miguel seemed too brutish, too unforgiving. But now, he hardly seemed a threat with his skinny frame and those curious, gentle eyes watching the slow sway of Daniel’s Fūrin, the painted designs of the glass globe hanging above his head, the dangling strip of wood just above his nose as he tilted his head up to look at it. He shook the previous thoughts away. Somehow he doubted the kid currently in his dojo had anything to do with what happened before.

Amid his piqued interest, Miguel had bumped into the hanging strip of wood as he got closer, quickly backing up. “Sorry.” 

They faced each other for a moment. “You feeling alright now?” Daniel asked.

Miguel rolled his shoulders, chest rising and falling heavier for a moment like he was testing himself out. “Yeah, I'm okay.” He looked at him again, up to his face. “Thanks for uh, taking me out of the sun and stuff.”

Daniel chuckled. “I wasn't about to let an unconscious kid sit in the hot sun. I mean, for all I knew–” He stopped himself abruptly before he had a chance to crack an awkwardness-fueled joke about Miguel being dead. “It's parental instinct.”

“Lucky for me, then.”

Miguel gave a tenuous grin and for a brief moment Daniel could see the vulnerability there, something that took him back about 34 years; like the bruises on his face were still there and the broken rib still made it hard to breathe properly. Was the feeling the same? Did he scare Mr. Miyagi as much as Miguel had scared him? Did his own mentor have the same feeling carrying his limp body back to his apartment as he did with Miguel was in the car, all weak and lifeless looking? The kid’s eyes had been closed the whole time, his head hitting the car window with every dip in the road, making Daniel’s anxiety climb higher by the minute, wondering if he actually  _were_ dea. If he’d been too late. Everything up until this point had been a fleeting reminder; the fisherman, training Robby, even Sam and her problems at school, but this particular event had been a glaring similarity even without Daniel trying to emulate any part of Miyagi that he could remember. This time, he almost felt uneasy by it. 

Daniel tried to shrug off the somewhat heavy feeling of Miguel’s gratitude. “It’s no problem. Just the right place at the right time, I guess.”

 _Nothing heroic about that, not similar at all._ He repeated that mentally to himself until he believed it. 

_No, nothing more than coincidence._

—

The drive to his apartment block was quiet, with Miguel enjoying the breeze from Daniel's convertible, the music on the radio the only real sound between them until Daniel pulled into the parking lot. Seeing Johnny walk up to the car first had Miguel surprised with his presence, almost jumping up in partial happiness until he realized how this must look, and instead slumped a little in his seat, tensing. This probably looked bad. Only a few days gone and he's riding around in  _Daniel Larusso's_  car. 

To his surprise, Johnny didn't chew him out right away like he thought he might've, and instead looked straight past him, right to the driver's side. “What are you doing here, Larusso?”

“Relax, Johnny, I'm just bringing him home.” The tension was evident in his posture, grip on the car’s clutch becoming noticeably tighter.

“Oh? Back from somewhere?” Johnny eyed them both. 

“You always keep tabs on your students like this?”

"Only when someone's apparently hellbent on taking them away from me–"

"Oh you're kidding, right?" 

At no part in this had either of the adults let Miguel speak or even speak  _to_ him, both too caught up in the apparent threat of each other.

“Well, you clearly took him  _somewhere._ ”

“I'm bringing him back, he was already there. Can you relax?”

“Already  _where?”_

“Why does it matter?”

“I deserve to know where he's been–”

The sun was awful hot like this. He wondered if it would be rude to get out.

“What are you, his  _father?”_

Miguel lowered his head a little, and Johnny glared right back. “Excuse me for wondering where you'd gone with my student, especially after the crap you pulled last week, and that stupid commercial–” 

There was a sharp, exasperated sigh from beside him, Daniel's other hand coming down on the steering wheel. “He was sick, genius, he nearly got sunstroke. What was I supposed to do, leave him in the field?”

Johnny finally looked down at him. “Why were you in a field?”

Miguel's head came up again. “I uh, I was...” He blinks a few times, as if the right answer might somehow appear on the backs of his eyelids. “Training outside. I went for a run, I guess I got too hot.” He looks up at Johnny. “Mr. Larusso found me passed out, but I'm okay now. I wasn't going anywhere with him.”

The intensity of Johnny's demeanour seemed to recede a little, and Miguel felt like he was assuring a concerned parent that he didn't do anything dangerous with a stranger. A little stiffly, he got out of Mr. Larusso's car and closed the door. Johnny backed up a little but still lingered around the parking lot, close at hand.

Daniel leaned across the passenger side a moment, calmly addressing Miguel again. “Be sure to drink some more water when you get home, alright?”

He nodded meekly. “I will, thank you.”

Daniel drove away, and only after it became a spot in the distance did Johnny finally stop staring down the retreating car. Miguel was still busy staring at Johnny. “What are you... I– uh, when did you get back?”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. "Apparently, just in time."

Miguel sighed, heavily. "I was telling you the truth."

“I know you were." He turned his head for a moment, muttering something under his breath, and Miguel's frustration builds.

_"What?"_

Johnny gave him a slight side-eye, nothing short of suspicious. "Nothin', just remember what I told you.”

The teen frowns, a bit upset now. “About the Larusso’s?”

"I told you that for a reason." Johnny's eyes suddenly narrowed in derision. "And what the hell are you doing training outside on a day like today?"

Miguel looked down. "Long story." A long story he didn't feel like telling right now. "Listen, I'm sorry to cut this short but uh, I've gotta go help my mom," Miguel’s eyes were still flicking back and forth from his apartment door. "It's way past when I said I'd be in." He quickly made a beeline for the apartment, walking right past Johnny and crossing the gap between the two buildings, but stopped himself before he opened his front door, turning back to face him again. "I'm glad you're back, and I'm really sorry about your friend." 

Johnny nodded in thankful acknowledgement. "Thanks," He looked to the door, face taking on a more amused expression. "You'd better get inside before your mother files a missing person's case." 

Both boys smiled amicably to each other, but with the humour not quite reaching their eyes it instead came off as a more awkward, curt politeness than a joke between friends. It felt weird for both Miguel _and Johnny_ , who looked extremely out of place being so stiff while his eyes remained fixated to something beyond Miguel. 

Miguel lingered with his key in hand, not wanting to turn away first. Johnny took that initiative for him, but before he can make it too far, Miguel yells out.

"You coming back tomorrow?"

He stopped, but didn't turn to look at him again. "I'll be back soon. Goodnight, Diaz." 

Miguel watched as Johnny crossed into the other end of the courtyard, a reply halfway out of his mouth. 

"Okay well–"

The door opened and subsequently shut closed just as quick, Miguel's voice trailing off in guilt. A bit red in the face then, he turned towards his door and slid the key into the lock, softly mumbling the useless formality into the wood. 

"Goodnight, sensei." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it.


	5. Quiescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the final week of July dwindles down, Miguel's troubles fester under the absence of his sensei.

_“The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong.”_

― Carl Gustav Jung

 

_Yet everything that touches us, me and you,_

_takes us together like a violin's bow,_

_which draws one voice out of two separate strings."_

—Rainer Maria Rilke, _"Love Song"_

 

 

 

##  WEDNESDAY

 

 

 

“How'd you feel about the test today?” 

“S’alright, I probably could’ve studied more though. I kept making stupid mistakes, like whether Wolffian ducts were male or female.” 

Miguel chuckles. “They're male.” 

There's a sudden huff of displeasure as she rolls her eyes. “Well, there's one answer wrong.” 

“Don't worry, it's only fifteen percent, you can make it up in the final even if you did bomb it.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

Sam’s voice lacked any conviction. Even before this revelation about the correct answer, her mood still seemed flat. 

“Is everything alright?” 

She shrugs. “Just the typical stuff, you know, fighting like it's the end of times.” 

“Your mom and your grandma?” 

“No, thank god. That finally came to an end a few months ago. They actually get along now… it's mostly my parents, now.” 

She’s quiet for a bit. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

“Uh..” 

“You can tell me if you want to. You don't have to.” 

“It's just my parents fighting more than I ever remember them doing before. It's like, everything is so screwed up and I can't even try to fix it. I wouldn't even know where to begin.” 

Miguel states the obvious. “That sounds stressful.” 

“That's accurate… I just, ugh I don't know. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be dragging you into this.” 

“No, it's okay, I wanna help, whatever it is.” 

“It's like they just can't get along, and my dad is all upset because _Cobra Kai_ is back…” He winces a little, and she stops mid-sentence as if she had completely forgotten. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like it’s bad or anything...” 

Miguel sits up in bed, the rush of sudden emotions involving the need to move somehow. He looks intently at her face on his phone screen. “No, it's alright. I uh, they have some history I guess, we can't change that.” 

She paused again, looking around, and Miguel silently braces himself. She both sounds and looks upset, quite understandably. 

“Wish we could. Between my parents arguing, and then all this stuff with your sensei, it's like I'm being torn in two and there's just, no end,” Her speech seemed measured, slow enough that it sounds hyper-controlled, something Miguel noticed people did a lot when they were trying to keep their voice from cracking. “I always hope that one day it'll magically get better. I don’t know if it would be worse or better if they separated…” 

He counted himself lucky he'd never had parents that fought all the time. He’d easily take having a single parent over feuding ones. He listens as she goes on, slowly before picking up speed again, still avoiding looking into the camera.

“Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, everything will be like walking on eggshells and I’d be stuck toeing the line between both of them and like, I don't want that but I don’t know if this will get better, _ever._ ” She takes another sharp, stuttering breath, and Miguel wonders if she would start crying just then. “Maybe it'll just be like this for the rest of my _fucking life_...” 

Sam never really swore much, in fact, he'd maybe heard it a total of twice since he ever met her, and once was when she slammed her fingers in the car door. Hearing it now is a little jarring. 

“It'll be okay eventually. It won’t be like this forever.” 

There's some semi-awkward silence for a few seconds while Miguel looks her face, Sam’s eyes finally meeting his after a few beats. 

“Think you and I can hide away from the world until then?” She says. 

Miguel briefly glances out his window, eyeing the moon in the sky surrounded by a few bright stars poking through the clouds, and such a ridiculously childish thought comes to him. “Sure. You know I bet we can live on Mars ‘till everything's settled here. I mean, NASA’s kinda already given that the go-ahead.” 

She smiles, chuckling. “I was thinking more of a cabin, but sure. Space sounds far away enough. Doubt my dad's constant phone calls will make it all the way there.” 

“Oh, it'll be totally cool. We can make ourselves some cool alien friends and live on their planet, they probably have way better technology than we do–” 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Uh, aliens? You sure they’d be friendly?” 

“They can share our frustrations with the human race at least, so maybe they'll warm up to us. They'll probably let us chill with them for a while. It'll be cool, you'll see.” 

She's giggling, and Miguel goes on about all the things they can do while hiding from their own lives. “And if space sucks, we could always go someplace on earth; it is pretty big.” 

He can see her shift around on her bed, the rustling of sheets crinkling in the speaker. “Let's go to Alaska, then we can see the northern lights… I've always wanted to see those.” 

In his mind, Miguel made it a certain promise that if he ever found a way, that he'd take her there to do exactly that. She wanted to go see the northern lights, so maybe he can make that happen. 

She continues. “L.A. really isn't much for stars. I've heard it's wonderful there, you can see everything in the sky.” 

He nods. “It's light pollution. It's the same way in the desert, you can see everything at night because you're surrounded by practically nothing.” 

A corner of her mouth curls downwards, and her mood flattens out a bit, her voice losing its upward inflection. “Wouldn't that be nice.” 

“Well, when we go to Alaska we can rent one of those cool cabins with the glass roof, and we can lay under a big blanket with some hot chocolate, and watch the northern lights and count all the constellations.” 

They lock eyes through the screen again, and she smiles warmly, Miguel’s own mouth turning up with her as she speaks. “That sounds really nice… I wish we could, for real.” 

For a moment the seconds tick by with Miguel trying for any comforting words. It's just them at that moment with him on one side of the Ventura Freeway and her on the other. His wall of posters taped on plain paint the antithesis to her cheerily coloured bedroom, lined with fairy lights and glossy framed photos, as if their entire lives existed in the fringes of a broadly swinging pendulum. He wants to say more to her; tell her anything to keep that smile on her face for as long as he manages to shoo away its falter. He loves that smile, always has since the moment he saw her. But he's still no pensive wordsmith or deeply poetic romantic. He can't think of anything to say but his own raw feelings, with nothing else to colour them or shape them into something more pleasant, or comforting, or smart. 

“I'm sorry your parents are fighting.”

“It's okay, not your fault.”  

“I know but, I wish I could actually help.” 

Her shoulders rolled back. “You are… talking helps more than you think.” Her head falls sideways against her pillow, maybe looking out her window, but he can't tell for sure. He's never been in her room. She continues looking away, attention fixed on something else outside his limited view into her space. 

“I'm just a little wound up and overtired... I guess it's getting to me. I just need to calm down, get some sleep.”

Her voice sounded a little uncanny. 

“You alright?”

Yeah, I… it’s fine. My heartbeat is a little fast right now… maybe it’s the adrenaline or something.” She's looking around again, and Miguel sits up straighter with his back against the wall, trying to gently plead with her. 

“You just gotta try and relax a little. When I'm like that, I listen to music. It helps me most of the time.” 

“Me too… you wanna hear a kinda-funny story?” 

He smiles. “Always.” 

Her attention is finally in once place again, and he tries to gently hold her stare. “When I was younger, like 10 or so, and I'd be really upset… like if I got a bad grade or fought with a friend or something, my mom would drive me around while she’d play music, we'd sing to the radio and sometimes we’d go and get ice cream, it was the one in Burbank we went to, actually.” 

That puts another, wider smile on his face. “That sounds nice.” 

“It was nice,” She speaks a little slower. We stopped doing that after a while though, mostly because I always just go to my room now, or talk on the phone… but I kinda miss it. Like, it was a little therapeutic to just drive and yell things, you know? Sorry, I know this must sound really stupid.” 

Miguel shakes his head. “No, no. Not at all…” He pauses for a moment, deliberating. “My mom kinda did the same thing.”  

“Really?” 

“It was more like humming, I guess. When I'd get really anxious about stuff, she'd lay down with me or hug me… and she would hum to me ‘till I stopped panicking over, whatever it was.” 

It's him avoiding her gaze this time, a bit embarrassed at the tale. He hears her make a sort of cutesy, ‘hmm’ sound in her mouth, and he looks back at his phone. 

“Like a lullaby?” It was more a statement than a question. 

“I guess so.” 

“Miguel, that’s… honestly adorable.” 

“Yeah well,” His cheeks burned, but hopefully she couldn't see it through the dim lighting. “Maybe not so adorable at fourteen. She just never stopped doing it, and I never really asked her to.” 

“I wouldn't have either, if I were you.” 

There’s a pause, shared sounds of breathing between them and the silence of both houses. 

“What did she sing to you?” Her voice wavers a little, despite no visible tears.

“Uh, I have no idea,” He laughs this time. “She doesn't either, it was something she heard a long time ago, before I was even born yet. She said it was the only lullaby that she knew by heart. When she used to hum it to me, I'd always go to sleep, so she just kept doing it.” 

His gaze shifts to the ceiling, tacky popcorn spackle patterns further ruined by water damage. He can hear the air kick on, and it sounds like it's barely running. 

Stupid, shitty apartment. 

Sam suddenly sounds as if she’s crying again, and his phone is no longer on her face, but down to her ribs, her hair obscuring most of the camera. He can hear her sniffing, quietly but still enough to detect that her breathing is a little shakier than before. 

“Sam?” 

There's a sob. A quiet, half-suppressed cry that she's doing a poor job of handling. “I'm sorry...” Her image swims back into view, tears visible in her eyes, while she takes one hand to wipe away those that have brimmed over. “I really need sleep but I know if I try to go to bed now I'll just end up thinking about things for hours, and I won't get any sleep…” Her voice is slipping in and out of coherence, breath coming in shaking gasps while she speaks in a hurried jumble of words that Miguel has to edge his way into. 

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay Sam,” His brain rouses to full alertness. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry.” 

He speaks gently. “Don’t apologize.”

She sighs, sharp and irritated, but not at him. 

He still can't see much from this angle. “Are you lying down?” 

She shifts more into the camera. “Uh, kinda, yeah.” He can barely hear her.

“Okay, great. Just lay down and um, try to get comfortable, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

He hears rustling again, and for a few seconds, nobody says anything. With neither of them talking, Miguel realizes how silent everything is. He can briefly hear the hum of his refrigerator and the air conditioner that was just shy of being useless during nights like this, all hot and humid.

“Close your eyes okay? Like you're gonna go to sleep.” 

Her brow creases slightly, but she does it anyway. “Okay.” 

He wishes he could just wrap his arms around her, that they really could hide away somewhere and block out the world. “You’re alright.” He says. 

She takes a deep breath. “Yeah…” 

“Just breathe.”

There's another moment where they both say nothing, Sam’s breathing the only real sound until Miguel starts to hum the familiar melody that he’s heard so many times before. He starts to make those familiar sounds in his throat, quietly and unsure at first, until he hears her make a happy little sound when she catches on, and he keeps going. Keeps softly humming the same lullaby that he'd only ever heard from his own mother, and in lieu of holding her, gently cradles the phone in one hand as if she can feel it. 

They lay, side by side, and he wants to memorize this so badly, to never forget how she's looking at him right then. 

“Miguel?” Her voice is steady now. 

“Yeah?” 

“You know I love you, right?” 

* * *

The bathroom was thoroughly steamy now, and Miguel shut off the water before it had a chance to get cold. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist approached the vanity. Rubbing his hand over the fogged surface of the mirror, smearing water over the reflection. 

He didn't like thinking about Sam too much because then he felt like an idiot. An idiot for accidentally hitting her, and even more of an idiot for getting himself in that situation in the first place. Attacking Keene didn't do him any favours; he made an enemy and an ex. He'd inadvertently drove them right into each other's arms, leaving Sam an angry, lamenting mess and Robby the perfect shoulder to cry on. Robby had already gone through the trouble of getting on Mr. Larusso's good side, it wouldn't have been hard to drive home the point that he would ultimately be everything to her that Miguel wasn't. 

He had a sudden urge to punch the glass, punch through it like he did with the dummy, drive his fist into the wall behind it and watch the glass shatter under his knuckles. Except that would do nothing but hurt himself, and he'd already done enough of that. Wallowing in his own self-pity was getting him nowhere, as much as he hated to admit it. Turning away from his reflection, he opens the door and the apartment’s temperature has apparently lowered drastically. He shivered. The air conditioner must’ve been working again.

When he walked into his room, the buzzing of his phone on his bedside table had his chest tightening up. He knew it wasn't her; it couldn't be, but there was still that déjà vu feeling that kept him holding onto that idea. Putting the phone to his ear, Tory’s voice rang out from the speaker. 

“Good morning, sunshine.” 

“Morning.” 

“You coming to class today?”

“Yeah, of course I am,” He looked down a moment, adjusting his towel before glancing out the window. The sun had finally moved beyond the grey blanket of clouds, leaving the sky a delicate blue-white. “Any reason I wouldn't be?” 

“Well I thought I'd check, in case you planned on not attending out of protest.” 

Miguel bowed his head. “Yeah, uh about that–” 

“Why'd you rush out after? I thought we could’ve practiced a little more.” 

He shrugged as if she could see. “I just didn't want anyone asking me why I said anything. I shouldn't have, maybe I shouldn't have said anything to him.” He didn’t believe what he said, not at all. 

“Well, why did you? No offence... like, I get it and all, but you know how he is.” 

“Yeah I know, but doesn't it seem like he takes it too far? We're not fighting for our life, we're sparring, we shouldn't put all our strength into practice fighting, it's too much.”

To put it gently. As a descriptor, ‘too much’ felt inadequate. What Kreese had been shoving down their throats the past three days was unnecessarily violent. What point is there to smash someone’s face so hard into the floor that they'd fracture their nose? Or kicking them so hard even after they’re already down, that they crack a rib? 

“It just seems like he's too focused on the offensive. It's not about self-defence anymore. Sensei always said we should focus on being ready for a fight, but he never said we should kick our enemy when they're down… to him, that's cowardice.” 

He remembered the lecture, but she wasn’t there for that. He also remembered the punishment. The knuckle push-ups on bare floors that he and Hawk would later spend hours cleaning, along with the bathroom, all while Hawk bitched lowly in Miguel’s ear, blaming both Keene and Sensei Lawrence for this mess. 

" _We did nothing wrong, man. I’m telling you, this is bullshit.”_

 

 Tory made a contemplative sound. “I mean he kinda does. Not to be condescending here, but it's on the wall for a reason. No mercy probably doesn't have exemptions just for sparring matches.” 

He didn't want to argue with her, standing in his room at barely 9am, but that part of his brain, the same one that joined the debate club as a front and ended up liking it, didn't want to give in without at least a proper rebuttal.

“Yeah, but he also told me that–” 

She didn't even let him finish. “What's up with you all a sudden?” 

He frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” She sounded half amused. “Is something happening recently I should know about? Ever since Sensei Lawrence left you've been acting really weird. Is something wrong? Like, you can tell me you know, if you want to.” 

Turning his head away from the receiver for a moment, he took a breath. He didn't want her thinking he was mad at her, specifically. “It's nothing, really. I don't like Sensei Kreese too much, he’s weird.” 

Laughter. “He's _weird,_ really Miguel?” 

“He talks about killing people too much, as if it's a good thing.” It comes out very flat, and silence hung between them for a moment or so, the silliness in Tory's voice sinking rapidly under the weight of Miguel's words. 

“Remember what I told you about my mom, her losing her job?”

“Um, yeah?” 

“Anyone who thinks conflict can be solved by talking is an idiot. If someone has it in for you, they'll look for any way to justify it, so you just have to look out for yourself.” 

Miguel shook his head. “What does this have to do with Kreese’s war stories?” 

“Nothing _._ Listen, ignore the trigger-happy ‘Nam veteran for a moment. I'm trying to tell you that _No Mercy,_ is for a reason. It's not ridiculous or stupid, it's just logical. You can't make someone change their mind about you, or your friends, or anything else. If they want to believe something they will, and the only thing you can do is act in your own best interest. You can't win.” 

“I guess so but like, isn’t it bad to think that way all the time when fighting? You can’t just dive into a life or death ultimatum with every punch thrown your way, it's a disaster.” 

“It doesn't have to be about fighting, and it doesn't have to be about killing anyone, but looking out for yourself is probably the most important thing you can do, especially when the odds are against you. That's all he's trying to teach us. Don't let your guard down and don't try to play the hero, because you're gonna end up losing. You understand where I'm coming from?” 

He sighed again, but this time silently, not wanting it to reach her attentive ears. “Yeah, I understand.” 

—

When he finally dragged himself into the kitchen, there was only his mother there by the stove, the silence broken by the simmering liquid in the pan as she spread batter into thin circles.

“Morning, mom.”

Carmen didn’t turn to look at him. “Good morning mijo. Do you want a crepe with fruit?” 

“Sure,” He looked to the couch. “Yaya not up yet?”

“She’s in her room.” 

“Oh.” Miguel had to let her words sink in a moment, not because of anything she said, but her voice just was so quiet the stovetop nearly drowned her out. The lack of noise in the room was noticeable to such a degree that when he dropped his gym bag on the floor, it felt as if he were making a huge commotion. For reasons unbeknownst to him, his mother’s presence seemed incontestably out of place. It was a Wednesday morning, didn’t she have work now? 

“Did someone else take your shift today?”

“Um, no... they’ve let me take more time off.”

“Oh yeah?” He felt a little silly talking to the back of her head. “That’s good.” 

She nodded, then answered. “Mhm. I get to be home more.” She finally turned around and approached the table, setting two crepes down in front of him, delicately folded with fruit and yogurt.

He eyed them gratefully. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Miguel turned in his seat a bit, head looking down into the hallway again. His yaya’s door was ajar, but just barely. His shoulders slumped forwards noticeably, bringing a finger to his mouth. He wanted to ask, but he felt as if the situation was already clear enough. Carmen cut the flame to the stove and came to sit down across from him, full attention on his plate as his fork cut into the dough. Eventually she put on the TV, the volume still low enough that the two of them speaking would still easily drown out the dialogue. Miguel finished the last few bites, chewing it slowly. He hadn’t bothered to look at the clock in a while but decided that it didn’t really matter if he were late for karate. He stood up, another action that seemed too loud for the room’s ears, and stowed away the plate in the dishwasher. Sticking around for a few seconds more than necessary, he turned himself towards the counter and away from his mother. In his peripheral, she looked as if she were paying more attention to the TV than anything else, tuned into the rapid Spanish of a news anchorman, while Miguel's ears felt like he’d somehow gotten water in them.

He moved forwards again, gathering his bag from its spot on the chair as Carmen’s broke her gaze away from the TV. 

“Heading out now?”

“Uh, yeah. Thank you... for breakfast.”

“You’re welcome.” Miguel stood there with his bag over his shoulder and too many thoughts for such an early hour. Walking to the door, he heard his mother’s chair kick out behind her as she came up beside him, holding the door open for him and his bag. “Have fun at karate today.”

“Thanks. You gonna be home all day?” He wondered if he should stay with her. 

“Yeah, tomorrow too.”

He looked back inside. “I can hang around, if you want, to help or–”

“No no,” She gestured outside. “Go have fun at karate. I’m sure with Johnny gone they need you to lead the class, right?” She tousled his morning hair, a prideful, motherly smile breaking the otherwise sombre cloud that had been hanging over her. “My talented boy.”

He shrugged, accepting. “I guess I should go.” 

He resigned to leaving, somewhat anxious still. Once again the feelings of unsaid words return. How badly he just wanted to say ‘screw karate, I'm staying here.’ He wanted to be home with her, for company and help, and at least to make sure she wouldn’t be alone sulking and depressed for a situation she couldn’t control, but undeniably still had every reason to hole up and cry in her room. But, he knew staying home and skipping his routine would only make her feel worse. Miguel stood there in the open doorway for what had to be thirty additional seconds until the prickly feeling working its way through his chest finally made his arms restless, and he dropped his bag at his feet. Carmen barely had time to look confused before he was hugging her, face going to her shoulder and squeezing around her ribs. It lasted for a few seconds before she attempted to untangle herself, whispering a little thank you into his ear before she pulled away, insisting he go this time before he was really late.

"See you later, mom."

"Bye, sweetie." She watched him leave, and he heard her close the door only after he'd rounded the corner of the building, out of the courtyard. 

His skateboard had become his method of travel for the past two days, ever since he’d stupidly left his bike sitting where it could be stolen and subsequently never went back to get it anyway. On his way there he continued to think about that afternoon, when he’d woken up in Mr. LaRusso’s backyard he was almost sure he could have dreamed it. Slinging his bag over his shoulder again, he pushed his board out into the sidewalk somewhat clumsily, still not used to all the effortful balancing that it took to successfully maneuver it. 

The trip to the dojo felt longer this time around, like every minute he spent anywhere but home was starting to weigh on him even more and despite the silliness of such a sentiment, he still felt guilty. He tried to shake those thoughts away once he was inside. The last thing he needed today was a reason to be called out for not focusing enough. 

When he stepped into the changing rooms, Hawk was the only one still in there, facing one of the mirrors and preening somewhat meticulously at his liberty spikes. Once the door shut though, his attention was on Miguel, who grinned at the sight.

“So this is what keeps you after gym class, fixing your hair?” He seemed embarrassed, and Miguel quickly tried to recover it. “Joking.” 

Eli smiled, a touch of snugness in the corners. “Girls dig the hair.” 

“I thought it was the _alpha attitude_?” Miguel countered.

He shrugged. “That too.” 

They exchanged their usual not-so-secret handshake greeting, and Miguel sat down on a nearby bench to change into his gi as Eli played around on his phone, not so inconspicuously checking his hair in between scrolls. 

“I'll be honest, I'm surprised you're here today.” 

Miguel's mouth tightened. “Why is everyone saying that?” 

“Because,” Eli looked up from the screen. “You were being really weird the other day. I half expected not to see you here again until sensei Lawrence was back.” Eli’s tone was humoured, but Miguel didn't bother to mirror the grin he shot him.

He just shrugged, tying the belt around his waist. “I was just speaking up.” 

“Yeah, well you made your thoughts pretty clear.” 

“That a bad thing?” 

For a moment he looked conflicted. “I mean, he's just trying to help us.” 

Miguel looked him over. “Help us with what?” 

Eli shrugged again, as if it were that obvious. “With life, man. You heard what he said; the _enemy_ shows no mercy, so _you_ show no mercy.” 

Miguel’s eyes scanned the ceiling tiles above his friend’s head, contemplating his response. He had nothing of value. “Yeah well, that sounds like overkill.” 

Eli gave his friend a weird look, like he couldn't comprehend Miguel's reasons for not taking it. 

“Why are you being so weird about this?” 

Miguel sighed, feeling somewhat defeated. “I'm not being weird, I just… don't get the point.” 

“The point is, you win or you lose. If you let your guard down your enemy will strike first and you'll be screwed.” 

Miguel nearly blurted out his confounding feelings on who exactly took the role of the ‘enemy’. Besides Robby, he had no real beef with anyone. Kyler was an invisible speck since the lunchroom incident, and even Robby, in all his girlfriend-stealing snobbery hardly fit the bill of a vengeful force that needed to be dealt with as soon as possible. The enemy was a faceless, nameless, empty threat. It felt like a way of control. 

Out of any compelling words, Miguel just nodded. “Yeah, I guess.” 

Eli seemed to dig into that, not nearly as careless as he'd made himself seem in the past few months. He saw through the flimsiness in Miguel’s voice for sure. 

“He's just trying to help us be better fighters. If anyone knows what it takes to get out of a situation alive, it's him. He's been to war and stuff, so he’s gotta know something, right?” 

Miguel chewed that statement, watching as Hawk got up and walked towards the door. He looked back a moment. 

“You coming or what?” 

Miguel looked at his clock. They still had ten minutes before class started, and that nagging feeling was still rolling around in his head, making his feet feel heavy.

“Yeah, I'll be two seconds, just gonna put my bag away.” 

“Well hurry up, everyone’s already started doing warm-ups.” 

He nodded. “I'll be quick.” 

At that, Hawk disappeared out the door, and Miguel was left alone. 

He thought about Tory’s words and Eli’s confusion. Maybe he was in the wrong, and he just couldn't see it. 

If it was only himself that truly felt this way, was it something wrong with them, or him? 

He shut his locker, pulling open the door and walking down the hall and under the archway to the front dojo, everyone still doing stretches and practicing routine jab-punches out on the mats. He turned his head, the ajar back door coming into view, and that feeling comes to him again.

When Miguel poked his head in, Kreese was busy doing bicep curls, his back turned towards the door. He lingered at first, expecting Kreese to notice him somehow, like all that military training should've bestowed him with a sixth sense for anyone trying to be sneaky.

He called out. 

“Sensei Kreese? May I talk to you for a minute?” 

With no pause in the repetitions and Kreese’s back still to him, Miguel allows himself in, slipping past the open door. 

There's a pause while Miguel stands around awkwardly, and Kreese finally acknowledges him. 

“What can I help you with?” 

Miguel took a breath, readying himself.

“I’m sorry about yesterday.” He tried not to look down, even if Kreese couldn’t see it. “I was being impolite and, after some reflection, I’ve realized that I was being stubborn for my own reasons, and I want to apologize for that.”

Kreese stopped his slow reps, bending down to put the weights back on the floor, and finally turned to look Miguel in the face. 

In the silence, Miguel added to his contriteness. “It was disrespectful of me to challenge you for no reason. I know that now.” 

Looking him in the eye felt different when Kreese wasn’t staring him down with his usual distaste as if everything he did was some personal affront. Miguel felt the same about him; he still didn’t like Kreese’s war stories or his cruel sentiments, he still hoped that his real sensei would walk through that door and everything would be normal again, but until then he had to think.

Kreese looked him over once in what felt like a brief sizing up. “Sensei Lawrence should be happy to have such a loyal student. I think he would be very pleased to hear you’ve been upholding what he taught you; it's certainly nothing to apologize for.”

Miguel nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re in which year in school, Mr. Diaz?”

Miguel resisted the urge to tilt his head and answered anyway despite the rather confusing tangent. “Going into 11th.”

“So you know evolution by now, they teach you that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you know the pitfalls that come with the inability to adapt to change, what happens when animals can no longer keep up with that is demanded of them?”

Miguel suppressed a frown. He was almost tempted to ask about his education. With all the zoology-based comparisons Kreese liked to use, surely somewhere down the line he’d studied the behavioural patterns of animals.

Kreese continued. “Do you remember what you learned about becoming stagnant?”

Miguel answered, somewhat automatically. “You have to keep moving forward, or else you’ll get stuck.” He looked down for a moment, feeling more self-conscious as Kreese’s paths of thought finally melded into coherence. “You think my stubbornness is getting me stuck.” 

He wanted to ask him about what he’d said the day before, about stubbornness. If that’s what he meant. It had sounded so much like a threat. 

“On the contrary,” Kreese surprises Miguel again, this time placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s Sensei Lawrence who isn’t moving forward. He’s trying his best, but between you and me, he’s a little lost right now.”

Miguel made a face. “He is?”

“I’ve known your sensei since he was twelve years old, and he’s got a good heart but a bit of a hard head.” Two fingers tapped lightly at Miguel’s temple, and he couldn’t help but think that this was some kind of comparison between the two of them. “But all he needs is a little nudge to get back to what he knows is important, which is where a student like you may come in. Together, I think we can steer him back in the right direction.” There was a slight squeeze to his shoulder, and Kreese’s thumb came to rest on his collarbone. “Alright?”

For a tiny, fleeting moment it was like a completely different person was talking to him. For weeks, Kreese had regarded them with aloof looks and barking commands whenever Sensei Lawrence would let him. He wielded the small amount of power he had over them whenever he got the chance. 

Miguel nodded, smiling anyway. He was trying to be happy, but the sneaking suspicion with it all was becoming harder to ignore the more he let himself think about it. The situation struck him as a little silly; he was suddenly part of a secret alliance to help his sensei out from a kind of midlife crisis. On one hand, lately everything seemed like a trick to trip him up in some convoluted way. Then again, Occam's razor had proven itself true over the course of his life quite a few times. Who knows, maybe it was as simple as Kreese actually giving a shit about someone. 

He tried to let his happiness linger despite the feeling that was looming over him. He grinned, trying to scrape together some faith in Kreese’s words. 

“Okay.”

He headed back to the main dojo, still feeling the uncertainty of the conversation and the weight of Kreese’s hand on his shoulder. 

 

—

[Scene Soundtrack, Click](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4_jcjOELSA&list=PLAKJnTVHRNIc0s2jH61duMzqi2cVVoZhG)

 

As Miguel headed home he noted the coolness in the air that afternoon, uncharacteristic for the end of July; the wind was stronger than usual, wicking the sweat away from his skin. It felt nice in his overheated state. Class had been par usual, work until you drop. 

Faintly, he could hear his phone vibrating, but upon patting his jeans pockets, found they were empty. He must've shoved it in his bag after class, not thinking. In the case it was from his mother he scrambled to get to it, halting his board and shoving his backpack off his shoulder as he rifled through it, silently cursing all the crap he'd left in there that was impeding the way to his phone. His hand finally grips it and his arm breaks through the mess, taking a few items with it as they tumbled to the ground. It had, of course, stopped ringing by then, and the missed call ID was none other than a suspicious 951 number, likely calling to inform him of a plethora of unpaid taxes. Annoyed, he looked down to his feet where a few things had fallen in his rush.

On the sidewalk lay his water bottle, a few pencils, and a familiar, leather-bound book. He forgot that he'd even put it in there in the first place; must've hidden it away with his gi one day to circumvent his mother's prying efforts to understand what had him so engrossed. It had landed open, and once he reached down to collect it, flipped it's own pages so quickly that Miguel nearly jumped back in shock. A lingering gust of breeze swayed a few stray leaves around his feet, but the book remained as it were. Hesitant, he crouched down again and picked it up. 

He scanned the page, the illustration immediately jumping out at him, an inky dark flower with a multitude of elongated, overlapping petals. He'd seen it before, Chrysa-something, he thought. People gave it away at funerals, he knew that too, and usually always white-coloured. He'd never seen a black one before. 

Miguel looked around briefly. He didn't want to stand there in the middle of the sidewalk and read it, but he also didn't want to close it in the case for some reason it wasn't there anymore when he got home. Carefully he gathered his things, zipping up his bag and tucking the open book under his arm, and hopped back on his board, scatterings of fallen leaves trailing behind.

 

Sitting at his desk, the smell of his mother’s cooking was leaking in from under the door, and he quickly scanned the pages, paragraphs broken up by small illustrations.

He bit his lip, absentmindedly chewing the outer layer of thin skin, and let his head make sense of the words. 

A flower that could give back life to the dead. 

A flower that could cure any ailment, any disease and bring perfect health to anyone who possessed it. 

A flower that could only be cut with a pure silver blade. 

A flower guarded by a being that could tear your entire skin from your body and consume it. 

A thing that _would,_ should you ever encounter it. 

Miguel looked carefully at the drawing, sinewy and emancipated beyond measure yet equally formidable, standing on abnormally tall legs that resembled those of a goat. The head bore the same resemblance, only as if someone had taken the effort to skin the head, hanging in wet, pulpy strips around its neck, milky eyes popped outwards in the sockets of its flayed head. He traced a finger over the ink, reading the few lines dedicated to its warnings. 

Beware the altered state it inflicts, one may outsmart it but it is crucial to not underestimate it. 

The last line felt more like an inevitable warning, urgent.

_You will undoubtedly pay the price._

Miguel frowned, hastily closing the book. 

 

##  FRIDAY

It was getting irritating being without his bike. His mother had started asking how long Demetri would be borrowing it. He figured, why not? Maybe it would still be there, leaning against the tree by the same parking lot. There were far more absurd things in the world right now than having his bike not be stolen off the Los Angeles streets. Making a hasty turn off of Victory, he narrowly avoided colliding with another pedestrian, aforementioned individual making their irateness clear with a few carefully selected words thrown his way. 

He wasn't thinking very clearly at the moment, not with all his brain was occupied with. Miguel turned to look across the road and down the winding path that he knew lead into the woods. Would the same thing be there waiting for him? The serpent with the hypnotic voice, or the clever fox with too many tails? 

Tucking his board under his arm, he walked down the same path, instinct guiding his feet as he trekked deeper into the woods. He turned back, hesitating for a moment at the edge of the trees and looking back into the street with caution, watching people pay him no heed. He felt nervous, a tingling feeling almost that spread through his limbs. He turned back and went on without a second thought.

The shadow of the trees cleared for the sun, a bright circle of light with the same tree standing tall in the middle, a familiar movement around its trunk. 

It recognized him immediately turning its head towards where Miguel stood, extending itself to hover a short distance away. 

“Hello, Miguel.” 

He felt lightheaded, a fuzzy, static sensation spreading over the back of his skull, gently threading through his brain and halting his train of thought. He tried to blink it back, get the heavy feeling out of his head and regain himself.

He didn't speak yet. 

“You're quiet,” Its head slipped away from its resting place in its folded body, Miguel watching it with caution-laden curiosity. “But that’s a good thing. You learn that way, listening instead of speaking… sometimes no response is the most intelligent one.” Its enormous body weaved around the branches of the tree, inching closer as Miguel stood, rooted to the spot. “But, it does usually help to say something.”

It talked like a woman, even laughed like a woman. 

“My Yaya isn’t doing very well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” The boa tilted its head down, peering curiously to the backpack held weakly in Miguel’s fingers. “That book of yours, the one you’ve been carrying around, you ought to burn it.”

That caught him off guard. “Why?”

“What you're thinking of doing, it's dangerous.” 

His brows knit together with irritation. “But,” He looked down, quickly opening the zipper of his bag and pulling out the book, still folded at the pages that contained the passage. “Look at this, it can help her, it could make her better–”

“ _No_ .” Her tone held all the sternness and finality of a mother telling their child that no, they cannot do that silly thing. They cannot ride their bike down that big hill. They cannot get a tattoo. They _can_ not _, will_ not _,_ do whatever they please.

It wasn’t until Miguel had popped his head back up that he realized how little distance there was between him and the snake. His feet were unconsciously dragging himself further away, only a little too quick to adequately hide his fear. 

“That would be a reckless, foolish decision… a very stupid decision.”

“Why not?” He scowled, again feeling the kind of righteous upset that he had during Daniel’s minor lecturing. Everyone wanted to exert their control over him, even this giant, ridiculous snake. “Why the hell not?” 

“Because! You'd have to have a death wish to go wandering around where that thing lives.”

Its forked tongue poked quickly from its mouth, a mouth that Miguel was now much more afraid of, now that the imminent threat of riling up a hungry snake had a clear consequence. His lungs got greedier, his breaths coming faster to keep up with the sudden demands of his heart. 

“Do you wish to die a pointless death!” 

“Get away!” He backed up more, effectively forgetting the protruding root not far from his feet and fell flat to the ground, hastily scooting back as the snake advanced, its neck arching back with the intention to strike. Miguel flinched, curling up on instinct. Both hands still holding onto the book, he swung it blindly at the air in a last-ditch effort to fight back against the inevitable.

A few seconds passed in quiet nothingness. His eyes cracked open.

There was nothing. No pain of fangs followed by a paralyzing venom in his blood, or even a suffocating pressure that cracked his ribs in agonizing unison; only a feeling of shifting ground beneath him, as if the snake had all but disappeared into the dirt beneath his feet. 

Miguel's hand laid against his chest, over his heart and feeling it thud against his ribs. He got up swiftly to his feet, not half a second later backing into a solid, warm barrier. He turned immediately, expecting to see the snake’s body somehow coiled behind, towering above him in a cruel trick to play with its food.

“Jesus–” 

A woman. 

“Relax, don't go running away again.” Her voice, exactly the same accented aura of calm and level, even when stern. “Does this frighten you any less?” 

In this state, she was much less; a darker woman with hair spiralled as tightly as her serpent body in the dying tree, had lost the bulk of what made her intimidating. Gone was the enormous plethora of scales that could physically squeeze the life from him, no longer any fangs in her mouth, but still stood tall and demanding in front of him, her heavy-lidded eyes peering down with the same dulled, chartreuse hue. 

He answers honestly. "Yes." 

—

“Oh, Johnny. Good to see you.” 

Her voice startled him a little. It was unusual to see her home at this time of day. 

“Hey, Carmen.”

She was looking at his hand, and immediately he felt the desire to put away the lighter, forget about doing what he was about to do.

He was never one to feel the need to hide what he was doing, but for some reason or another, this was the last thing he for which he wanted to be caught in the act, especially by her.

“Sorry, I uh–” She continued her languid pace towards him as he attempted a half-baked explanation, but there was no contempt in the way she looked at the joint in his hand. “A friend of mine gave me some, figured, what the hell, could... use a load off.” 

She smiled, reassuring and understanding like always. “It's alright. Believe me, I get it. It’s nice to have something to help, to cope.” 

He suddenly remembered her mother. Rosa hadn't been knocking on his door lately, asking if he'd like some empanadas or more of that meat stew he liked, she hadn't been outside, smoking her own joint. If he were outside, she'd always share with him.

“Don't you dare tell Miguel.” She'd insist, although the only words he vaguely understood the first time was “No speak” and “Miguel”. After a while he'd started recognizing more of her words, more of what she was saying to him while they stood there and smoked, and there was some sense of satisfaction in knowing that. She’d joke about their neighbours in the building, about a handsome man she’d been chatting up in the apartment above them, or sometimes she’d pass sly remarks about a blonde in 2b that brought around married men late into the nights. 

As they stood around the courtyard, Johnny feeling fuzzy-headed and tranquil, they talked. Sometimes they discussed Miguel and his students, other times they’d discussed her daughter. She once let it slip that Carmen always got talkative when he was brought up, her expression holding that glint of mischief that told him she was more than happy playing matchmaker. In that instant, Johnny really did feel as if he'd been transported back to ‘84, as they sat outside passing a joint between their hands like Johnny was still in high school and they were skipping homeroom to go light up in the back parking lot, hiding away from useless classes and even more expendable responsibilities. 

He lit up, feeling that familiar musk hit his nose as he took a small pull, shoving his lighter back into his pocket. He extended his hand to her, the burning joint an open offer, but he didn't expect her to accept. Nurses were healthy, right? They didn't put crap like this in their lungs. His mouth finally opted to fill in his awkward silence.

“So uh, how is everything?” 

Her fingers carefully took it from his hand, rolling her shoulders back as she brought it to her lips, thick smoke seeping through her open mouth as she spoke. 

“Seems like my life is finding new ways to test me every chance it gets.”

Johnny nodded shallowly, well aware of that feeling. Cars passed by on the road in front of them, and Johnny watched them go by, counting them in his head. For whatever reason, he felt stupid, _useless_ , in his attempts to comfort her right then.

“Yeah, life sucks sometimes.”

His lack of adequate words certainly didn't help.

“You know, sometimes I forget why I pray. It's almost like it's useless... it feels so useless.” She handed back the joint, and for the second her fingers brushed his, he felt too awkward to look at her. He took a careful inhale, suddenly worried about choking up like some kind of shmuck. “Sometimes I come home and I think, what am I going to do if she gets worse? I just, I couldn't– I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

Johnny was always bad at comforting people. 

 

Exceptionally bad.

 

All of fourteen years old then, and he couldn't even handle his mother's tears. 

 

He can still remember what they were eating for dinner. 

He’d helped her make rainbow trout, laid out on the serving plate like how she’d seen it in one of her recipe books. He’d removed all the bones for her, even those tiny, little threads he could barely see. 

They’d been curled up in the living room, Laura with her book, and him, watching NOVA’s “Animal Olympians”, fascinated by seeing the slow-motion mechanics of a cheetah’s sprinting. 

The phone rang, and he watched his mother disappear through the large archway of the den.

The television had engrossed him, feeling his mind drift with the soothing narration and pleasing pictures. 

After a few seconds, he could hear her talk.

“Yes, this is she.”

Salmon were flinging themselves up the river. The camera captures one in slow motion, all pink fins and sunlight glinting off the water. 

He couldn’t hear her for a few seconds, maybe around ten, he wasn’t counting. He was about to call out to her, to tell her about the salmons, when--

“What do you _mean?”_

She sounded disbelieving, and that was when his ears had finally tuned into what was going on down the hall. 

“I just spoke to her yesterday–” 

Something had happened. 

His head whipped towards the doorway, but he couldn’t see her. He cannot see her, but he can hear her voice, on the verge of breaking. 

“Are you sure? Oh, god… _oh_ _god.”_

By then, he’d stood up, venturing out from the safety of the den. 

“Mom?”

She stood there by the phone, holding a hand to her face in the way most people do when they're crying, or about to sneeze. 

He tried again, softer this time. “Mom, What’s wrong?” 

She’d waved him off, lightly but put it back just as quick. She turns around, heading up the stairs as Johnny tries to follow. 

“I'll be upstairs, for a bit.” 

She was so quiet he barely heard her. 

He’d stood there by the stairs, a growing compulsion to follow her, and a slow sense of unease creeping into his head. He figured she’d come out when she wanted to, and he’d be here for her. 

So he laid down, curled up on the couch and waited for an hour before the soft, dreamy music under the dim light had lulled him to sleep. He listened, as bears had come to eat up the salmon, that their risk their very lives just to swim upstream. 

He’d woken up very suddenly. It was still dark, no chance to be morning. Something must have roused him. A noise, maybe Sid had come home. NOVA was still on, but the salmons and bears had gone. 

Then he heard it, cutting through the silence and undoubtedly what had woken him. He didn't have to strain his ears. He could easily hear her over the TV. He got up, the spiralling sense of unease still in the back of his mind like he was counting for something to snap. Slowly, he’d walked down the hall and he could hear her clearly, sobbing and hyperventilating in her bedroom, raspy, wheezing gasps sounding like it was one step away from him cleaning vomit off the floor.

She sat, keeled over at the foot of her bed with her phone book open and her telephone dragged onto the floor. 

“Mom?” 

He wasn’t even sure she’d noticed him. His chest felt tight, and the words were harder to get out this time. 

“Mom, _what happened?_ ”

 

He wanted to say something to her, say just about anything, but he couldn't. He stood there watching her mouth move, feeling the same nauseating tightness in his gut that he’d felt watching Kreese walk back into the dojo. Within a few seconds, he'd realized she'd stopped talking, holding out what was left of the joint in between her index and middle fingers, tilting her head and trying her best to regain his attention, now fixed to something a little ways behind her.

“Johnny?” She looked a tad concerned. “Are you alright?” 

He blinked a few times until his line of vision became unstuck. “Yeah, sorry,” He guessed that maybe he could blame it on the weed. “Haven't smoked this shit in a while.” 

To his surprise, she cracked a meek grin; again something of a gentle reassurance laid out so plainly for him. She had such pretty brown eyes. Miguel had that same delicate brown colour, and Johnny had once joked that it made him look soft; the kid just looked far too innocent for his own good. Johnny had wondered whether or not he practiced that wounded puppy look in the mirror. Did girls eat that stuff up? Maybe they thought it made him look sensitive; different but in a good way. 

With Carmen still smiling at him, he can see more of Miguel's resemblance in her face if he looks past the outward femininity. They both wore their happiness well. 

She patted his arm. “Me neither.” 

Johnny relaxed a little, back curving against the wall. He tried to shake off the haze that was threading its way through his blood, drying up his throat and making his head feel the times he'd swallowed one too many antihistamines. 

“You know, Miggy's always been so empathetic, ever since he was little.” 

He licked his lips and listened to the soft hum of Carmen's voice, her words making him feel pleasantly calm in such close proximity. He may have missed that too, how she got closer to inspect his face and then stayed there, no more than a foot away by his side, her back against the wall and the top of her arm brushing against his every time she took a puff.

“In the second grade, after one of his friends broke their arm. He carried his books everywhere… every day for _a month_ … you know, he’s such a sensitive kid, he feels for everyone no matter who it is. If someone was lonely he’d talk to them, if they were having trouble at school, he’d offer to help them.”

Carmen took a longer pull at the dwindling joint, and as she spoke Johnny hoped that the watery undercurrent in her voice was only from the smoke in her lungs. 

“Sometimes I just-- sometimes I feel like I'm getting too old for him or something.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean like, lately it's just been different, I can't keep up. I don't know where he goes half the time– he goes out for hours and comes back a complete mess. I don't know what's going on with him.”

 _Boys will be boys,_ or something to that effect, was the only thing that crossed Johnny's mind. 

Carmen frowned, an almost teenage-pout forming on her face. “And he stays in his room all day.” 

That time, Johnny choked out a laugh. “Sounds familiar.” 

He was more referring to himself than his freshly-seventeen flesh and blood, but there was still that lingering chagrin that talks of kids had always instigated, poking at the back of his brain with an incessantly nagging ache. 

The air left her lungs, along with a weak trail of quickly dissipating smoke. “Maybe if I were him I'd want to stay in my room all day too. I mean, he’s sixteen and he's pretty much taking care of both of us.” She chuckled to herself, but there was no real humour in that. “I'd want to hide, too.” 

Johnny's throat seized up, trying fruitlessly to swallow the saliva that'd been pooling at the bottom of his mouth.

 

—

“It's _dangerou_ s for you _._ ” 

“It can help her! What am I supposed to do, sit around while she gets sicker–” His voice cracked, and he had to swallow down the building tension before it snapped and made his whole point another teenage outburst. “Everything is falling apart! And you want me to just trust that everything will be fine? What if– what if she dies, and I could've helped...” 

“I understand, Miguel.” 

“No you don't! How could you possibly understand!” He wanted to scream at her. “Nothing in this fucking world makes sense!” 

He sidestepped her, aggressively shoving past with what nerve the building anger gave him and picked up his bag, intent on leaving.

“Why would it matter anyway? I'm sure I can throw magical stones at it and it'll go away, or maybe tap water will melt it.” In a bitter outburst of humour, he smiled. Smiled like an idiot at the woman who had still made no move to stop his retreating steps. “If I go, what are you going to do about it? You can't leave here. So who are you to say I can't? I'm going okay, _too_ _bad–”_

Just as fast as he’d turned his back on her, she had both of his arms in her grip spinning him around by the shoulders to face her, leaving no room to move an inch. 

“Let go!”

“You listen to me, you stubborn little boy. How do you think your mother will be able to go on at the death of both her mother and her only son?” Miguel ignored the pain in his arms where her fingers dug into the muscle, for once more focused on her words than anything else. “Think, for once, of what you're doing.”

The pain in Miguel's throat climbed higher. Fearing that he might be sick, he clenched his jaw until he could feel the grooves of his teeth align. 

“You already know...” He was mumbling as if this horrible scenario wouldn’t exist if only he’d spoken softly enough; if the universe didn’t hear him, it wouldn’t come true. 

“You know she's gonna die, that's why you don't want me to go.” 

—

He and Carmen stayed leaning against the wall, both adults feeling the distinctly placating buzz that made the silence pleasant instead of awkward.

Johnny, for a moment, pictured her in her younger days wondering if she ever had carefree, stupid moments of her youth, ones that conjured up equal amounts of fondness as they did sombre, adult judgement. 

At eighteen, Johnny had been freshly-graduated. He’d cut ties with his old sensei and was joyfully soaking up all that ‘the world is your oyster’ crap, riding high on a life that was, at that moment, full of possibilities. He wondered what Carmen felt at eighteen, five months pregnant and married in her little town of Manta, maybe staring out at the coastline whenever she could sneak out of the house and out from under her husband’s thumb, sit there while the sun came up and think about running away with her mother once she found out what she was really married to. Carmen had told him a little bit about her life before; enough to give a picture of how it was, and he thought about that old saying of the devil is in the details, how _true_ it was, and he’d walked away from that conversation feeling hollow and sorry.

But Carmen didn’t want pity, she didn’t need it. A woman who’d uprooted herself from her own hometown on the money she’d stashed under the floorboards of her bedroom, all while he was still off in college doing blow on the weekends and drinking away a business degree, did not need anyone’s pity. 

He could still picture her watching the sun come up over the water, and he wondered if she ever counted down the time it took for her to slip away and her husband to wake up, wondering if she could make it out of town before the daylight ratted her out, and he realized he was lying in an empty bed. 

He stomped out the burning roach beneath his shoe and looked back up at her face, mouth in a firm line, looking like a weak attempt at willing away her feelings.

“I'm just across the way you know, if you ever need to talk. I'm at home, majority of the time.” 

He wondered if that made him sound like a loser. After all she had seen, did it really matter if he sounded like a guy that preferred to hang around his apartment most nights, rather than at the bar with a group of friends? 

His friends that were down not just one, but _two._ One shackled up in Lompoc and another beyond the realm of anything tangible, the implications of it all something that Johnny only able to think of very late at night whenever he couldn’t sleep. It hardly felt the same now with that gaping hole that nobody could ever fill. What real purpose would another reunion bring, other than to remind him? 

“You know me.” He added, and Carmen acknowledged that with a little nod of the head. He wasn't sure if she would say anything else, or if she even had anything else to say, and for once he felt comfortable filling in the gaps. “I know what it's like to, uh–” Then he stopped himself.

He didn't want to say ‘lose a parent’. Rosa wasn't dead. In all likelihood, she'd be fine. She _wasn't_ dead, so he'd be a fucking idiot to say ‘I know what it's like to lose a parent’, because then he would sound as if he was simultaneously one-upping her and dooming the wellness of her sick mother all in one go. He took a breath, exhaling the thoughts that were building up in his head, and reached out for fresh, balanced words to replace them. 

“I know how hard it can be to try and balance your life when it just seems to pile it on all at once. If you ever need anything, just knock.” 

“Sure.” 

He felt the need to double down on that statement to keep it from feeling flimsy. “Really, anything at all, even if it's 2am and you wanna show me a song on the radio.” 

That made her laugh a little bit, and Johnny felt a tiny ebb of pride. 

“I'll keep that in mind.” The silence didn't feel awkward then, as if she were only trying to take it all in, him and his words, just as slowly as she’d walked towards him from her front step just a half-hour ago. “Thank you, Johnny.” 

Her smile was infectious. “No problem.” 

They’d both stayed out long enough by now, avoiding the brutal downward pull of reality and adult obligation, and Carmen politely excused herself to other needs inside. Johnny didn’t know where exactly Diaz was at the moment, but he probably wasn’t around the apartment given that his mother had been so lenient on smoking just outside the apartment’s front gate. That, and the kid apparently had a knack for disappearing for hours at a stretch. 

Slowly they had started to part from each other's company, Johnny crossing over to his side of the apartment block and his hand halfway to turning open his door, until Carmen’s steady voice stopped him just short of walking in. He turned on his heel, expecting to see her waiting around on her own doorstep, maybe wanting one more word of goodnight. However his assumption proved itself wrong, as she was nowhere near her own door; almost as if she'd simply chosen to follow him right up to his front step.

He blanked for a minute voice feeling somewhat weighed down by her proximity. “Yeah–” 

 Johnny abruptly got a noseful of the perfume she wore, as her arms went around his neck and her chin rested on his shoulder, his own hands coming to rest in the middle of her back. 

“Really Johnny, thank you.” 

—

The fridge hummed in its workings, and Johnny really felt no other option would really be suitable in this headspace. His blinds were turned open, the apartment still filled with stuffy air. He slid a window up, letting the gentle wind touch over everything in his small living room. The fuzziness of the joint was inflicting a stranglehold on his concentration and he felt himself dipping in and out of alertness as the task he’d lined up in his head suddenly dissipated, right along with the last bits of detectable moisture in his mouth. He licked his lips, and decided that popping open a beer seemed an adequate companion piece to the sensations already taking hold. 

He gulped back a few mouthfuls, leaning against the kitchen sink and staring at her face on his TV stand. Her picture was still the first thing he saw when he walked in and usually the last thing he saw before he left, sitting in it's own place right below his TV that he still only ever played on four different channels, despite having 2500 at his disposal.

He walked somewhat shakily towards his living room and slumped down on the couch, letting his head lean back as the lightheaded feelings intensified, and shut his eyes.

 

He could remember so much about his mother.

 

Her voice sounds wrecked and he isn't sure if it's due to anguish or exertion, having spent over two hours huddled on the floor sounding like every sobbing heave was scratching the inside of her throat, like it hurt her just to even cry, with no sense of relief in something that should be the least bit therapeutic. 

“It's okay,” He tries. “It's okay.” 

She used to rock him when he cried, even as a kid, because it always helped him calm down, to feel better.

Nothing is helping her. 

“Oh God, _oh god.”_

She sits with her head curled into her chest, his arms around her back, a droning, grating sound coming out low in her throat in between interment gasps of air. 

When he takes a breath, it’s as if it doesn't want to come, a stuttering half-fill of his lungs that still isn't audible through her weeping. 

With his back against the foot of her bed, the rocking motion now more for himself than her, as if he can stop the creeping feeling of dissociation that was coming on, making the carpet under his legs feel like wax, like he could die and come back, as if nothing was out of the realm of possibility.

She seems much louder than before, her sobs creating a faint buzz deep in his ears, but he can't move his hands from her.

He can't let go of her. 

His eyes go to the lamp on her nightstand, the stem seeming taller now, something not right about the way it stood so tall, almost warped. Squeezing his eyes shut, he grips her shoulders tighter, listening to her go on and on and her voice doesn't even sound like her anymore. 

“It'll be okay,” he groans in a sort of perplexed agony, and he can barely hear himself. "Please,"

 

_“It'll be okay.”_

 

He woke abruptly, pulling enough air into his lungs to choke and feeling the dull thud of his heart in his ears. Sitting up felt heavy and the dizzying rush of blood from the back of his head, plummeting south towards his feet. The pleasant, cannabis-induced buzz had faded now with a spotty, nervous memory in its place. 

An hour had passed, with the late-afternoon sun creating splotch on his kitchen wall, most of which was taken up by a distinct, human-shaped umbra. Johnny's mind jumped into action, thinking that maybe Carmen had made another venture out. 

Stepping outside, he quickly realized Miguel was the only one loitering in the courtyard. He froze halfway, hand still on the knob as he slowly shut the door.

“Hey, Diaz.” 

Miguel's face finally popped up from staring at the ground, and Johnny almost laughed at the sight of the same hazy, slightly reddened whites of his eyes that he suspected the kid must've seen looking back at him.

“Don't worry, I won't tell your mother.” 

Once again the tension hung around, with no humour in the way Miguel held himself, shoulders hunched forward and his fingers busy fidgeting at his sides, nipping at his jeans that seemed to be smeared with dirt. At the realization his humour didn’t exactly land with the kid, Johnny's charming smirk wavered. 

“You okay?”  

“Yes, Sensei.”

Miguel sounded tired. Johnny rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the hair dusting his neck, something that he'd allowed to get a little too long for proper appearance. 

“How’s class been going without me?” 

Miguel’s gaze darted around a bit. “Good… Sensei Kreese is teaching us a lot.” 

There was a bit of a nagging unease that trudged along with that statement.

“Yeah, what else has he taught you?” The last part came out less like an afterthought of curiosity and more like a thinly-veiled bout of jealousy.

“How to win a fight. He knows what he’s doing, at least.” 

He knows what he’s doing. Was that supposed to be some kind of dig at his expense? He resisted the urge to take another long swig from the bottle in his hand, already three-fourths empty anyways. It felt weird under the way Miguel was looking at him, or rather, glaring at him. What else had Kreese put in his head? 

“Is something wrong? You upset or something?”

“No.” 

Far gone was the kind-hearted puppy aura, and all the more confusing to Johnny was the off-sounding timbre in Miguel’s voice. He supposed that the kid was naturally a little lighter in his tone, but now it felt like he was openly mocking him. Was he angry at him for leaving them alone? Surely he’d understood. Someone died for Christ’s sake, people need a break. Or was that suddenly weakness to him now?

Already somewhat irritated by his own accusations, Johnny cautiously tested the waters. “Monday, I’m coming back to class.”

Miguel’s glare lost a bit of its edge. “Great. You can see what we’ve been practicing.”

Johnny resisted the urge to come closer. Diaz still hadn’t made a move to eliminate some of the distance between them yet, and he didn’t feel he needed to go invading the kid’s personal space, something he evidently needed right then.

“I’ve gotta go,” Miguel flicked his head in the direction of his door. “See you on Monday.”

That sliver of enthusiasm felt empty, more outright vexing than relieving, and when Miguel had shut the door with the same disregarding edge that he’d greeted him with, a small part of Johnny’s brain cussed him out. There was an urge to take that now empty Coors bottle, when exactly he’d drank the last of it was not in his immediate scope of memory, and hurl it at the door. Amazing how easily Carmen could instill happiness only for her own son to swiftly steal it away, and making Johnny feel guilty somehow, even though he should have been one to tell him to cut the moody  _woe-is-me,_ crap.

He headed back inside with a little _less_ pep in his gait, unaware of the person who’d been peeking at him through the blinds.

 

##  SUNDAY

 

[Scene Soundtrack, Click](https://youtu.be/_UjEZ9VOZrs?t=91)

It must've been early when he woke. 

It must have been _very_ early, his eyelids were stinging and unwilling to do little more than squint open. From what little he could make out, a hazy deepening redness was flashing across his bedroom ceiling. He tried to blink without it hurting. He tried again; blinked once, twice, and again before willing himself to stay awake. 

He could suddenly hear his mother clearly. He sat up in alarm, feeling the blood rush back down to his toes, the dizziness of suddenly standing vertical nearly making him collide with his door.

“Mom?”

The door was open, and he could see where the lights were coming from now, an ambulance outside the block. 

He froze, head whipping around to the open door of his Yaya's room before he darted in, shoving himself underneath the bed so fast he smacked his head on her bed frame. The bowl lay exactly where he’d left it, a tangy coppery smell peppering the space underneath the bed, and as he inched forward on his elbows, tried to locate any sound from within, trying in vain for any babbling noise through the EMT chatter and his mother’s creeping hysteria, getting louder with every question unanswered. 

“Hey,” He tipped the bowl slightly, and poked the root with his finger. Blood, looking the same as when he’d first placed it here a few days ago, remained still. The root didn’t gurgle, didn’t move, laid like a rock in the middle of the dish. 

He crawled out with the bowl still in hand, prodding and poking and hoping, for anything to indicate life.

“Are you dead?”

If it were dead, would that…

In his rush to put the bowl back where it came from, the small amount of blood still rolling around in the bowl splashed back over the side, bits staining his sleep shirt. Miguel wrinkled his nose at the smell, but his worry greatly outpaced his disgust at having week-old blood spill on him. 

In the front hallway he could see through the open door, the back of the ambulance slammed shut with his mother close beside it. Seeing him standing there in the hall with blood on his shirt, she rushed back inside.

“Miguel– ” 

“What’s wrong with her? What happened?”

“I need to go to the hospital, but you stay here, okay?”

“Why–” 

“Because– you don't want to be there at the hospital all night, I need to go, I'm sorry–” 

A rather undignified whimper came bubbling up from his throat. “No,” He shook his head, stubborn and shaky. “I want to go.” 

“Miggy–” 

“If there’s something wrong I wanna be there, mom,” He tried to sound steady, more determined than emotionally-charged. “Please, don't leave me out of this.” 

Carmen paused, one hand on her purse, and glanced fleetingly out the door, the ambulance loaded up and her car idling at the ready.  

—

Miguel watched the rosary hanging from the rearview mirror sway from side to side like the fat tail of a carp with every bend or lurch in the road, guided by the same flashing red lights he'd woken up to. 

He followed Carmen every step of the way, somewhat awkwardly dancing between nipping at her heels and trailing too far behind. He walked with her every step in tandem, glancing between where the ambulance had wheeled his Yaya into emergency. His mother was keeping step-in-step with the EMT's wheeling Rosa down the hall, but someone was barring Miguel from going any further, and no amount of teenage stubbornness was helping. 

“I'm sorry honey, staff only.” 

He balked at that. “But my mother–” 

“ _Is_ staff,” The woman's red hair was tied up tightly in a bun, a few lone, frizzy baby-hairs popping out near her temples. “She's there to help her. You'll be able to see your grandma soon. We need to monitor her for the night, to run some tests.” 

Miguel glanced behind her, into the ER. “Can’t I see her for a minute?” 

She shook her head. “She’ll be fine until tomorrow. You need to stay here in the waiting room, okay? You can't be back here.”

His mouth hung open a few seconds, staring at his shoes as a familiar pain pulled at the back of his throat. “Fine.”

He let her guide him to a couch, the room mostly empty at this hour; no visitors were permitted at 2 am. Miguel laid down slowly, head sinking uncomfortably into the tightly woven polyester stitchings, feeling fuzzy against his cheek. She’d left him with a small box of equally-scratchy tissues, and reluctantly he dabbed at his cheeks, letting the used kleenex fall to the floor. For an hour he laid there feeling jittery and anxious, hearing nurses talk and the quiet clamouring down the hall, until the interment talk over the PA system slowly roused him out of laziness. He lifted his head, fed up with the spot, and walked down the hall towards the help desk.

“Excuse me.” He steps up to the oak barrier, looking expectantly at the woman behind the horrendously outdated computer monitor. “I need to know where Rosa Diaz is staying, her room number.” 

The woman paused for a moment, probably looking him over while probably trying to determine the time from the clock on the wall behind him. He knew it was still late. “She's on the next floor,” She glanced at the screen. “Room 512… but there's no visitors right now, you know.” 

He nodded, apathetic. “I know, I'm Carmen's son.”

“Oh?”

"Rosa's her mother... she's the woman who came in a few hours ago?”

The rigid line of her mouth softened a little. "Oh... I'm sorry honey, that your grandmother?"

He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. " _Yes,_ I need to see my mom _._ She's working that floor tonight. She forgot the house key and wanted me to bring it to her."

"I can do it, I'll keep it here for her."

Very slightly, he bounced anxiously up and down on the balls of his feet. "No thank you, uh, I wouldn't be comfortable with giving my apartment key to someone." He felt his brows crease. "Can I just go up quickly and give it to her?"

She seemed to accept that. “Alright. Just, follow the signs down the hall. It's one floor up and past a set of doors on your left.”

Miguel glanced towards an elevator some ways away, already stepping away from the desk. “Thank you.” 

He jogged down the hall until he reached the silver doors, pressing the button with some irritation until they finally opened. He was eager to get to the room despite the frizzy-haired obstruction. The elevator dinged some ten seconds later, and he stepped out to floor five, smelling of cleaning products and a musky, unsettling aroma that made him a little nauseous. 

Nobody bothered to look his way as he navigated himself to his Yaya’s room, a square section of off-white walls with a window in its centre, large and elongated. Her bed was right beside it, privacy curtain open and a view of the city unobstructed, glittering in the distance and more visible with the room’s drastically dimmed lights. He brushed aside the flimsy partition, happy to see she was awake. 

“Hey, Yaya.” He tried not to look at all the tubes connected to her arms, weaving in an out of the blankets and taped rather hastily to the creases of her elbow.

Rosa looked at the clock, smile faint but detectable. “Son las 4 am... ¿Te colaste o algo así?” 

He chuckled. “Quería verte. ¿Qué pasó?” 

“Desperté,” She tapped her chest. “Difícil respirar.” 

He gnawed on his lip. “Oh. ¿Te sientes bien ahora?” 

“Sí, aquí te dan cosas buenas...” She smiled, more pronounced this time but Miguel could detect the pain in her movements. “Deberías ir a casa. No te quedes aquí, es deprimente. _No quiero_ estar aquí, la TV es una basura aquí… ¿cómo se supone que voy a ver a Jane la Virgen?”

He tried to laugh. “Vine con mamá,” The city caught his attention again. “Es bueno que tengas una ventana, al menos puedes mirar afuera...” He made sure to speak quietly, aware of the three other patients in the room with her. 

Rosa cleared her throat, swallowing somewhat noticeably. Miguel, who was still focused outside in his efforts to look someplace other than the IVs or all the other steadily working machines, didn’t notice the little hiccup in her breathing at first, until that hiccup turned to a much more noticeable heave and Miguel’s attention was brought immediately back.

“What’s wrong, are you okay?” His heart sped up in warning. “Want me to get someone?”

She nodded. “No te preocupes, cariño— trae a alguien, por favor...”

Miguel hastily stepped back, eyes on her until he made it to the door, getting the attention of a nurse lingering outside the hall. 

“!Ayuda por favor, Ayuda!” His brain, caught up for a millisecond in jumbled Spanish, would have been more humiliating in any other circumstances, any other place that the mistake didn't stem from sheer panic. “Help, please! Need help–” He motioned to a nurse, waving her desperately inside, however he hardly needed to rush her at the rate she was going once a machine behind him began to wail with gusto. 

Miguel stood, feeling frozen and useless at the open door watching his mother jog her way towards him, her attention torn halfway between him and the commotion inside. 

“I thought you were downstairs, what happened?” 

“I wanted to see her, just in case– I’m sorry!” The edges of his mother became blurred, and when he blinked again, found a thicker haze overlayed everything in sight. “I’m _so sorry_.”

Carmen hesitated a second, feeling caught between her distraught son and her wheezing mother, until a more panicked voice sought out her name; not of Rosa but of someone else, equally distressing in the absence of any noise from her own mother. Hurriedly, she backed Miguel out of the room until he was immersed completely in the bright light of the hall, shutting the door and leaving him standing there with a heaving chest and open mouth. 

 

 _Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way_ _and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, t_ _hough its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging._

 

Another nurse pushed past him, now four of them in the crowded room and not one look inside afforded to him. With the coiling anxiety in his stomach reaching a critical point, he realized bitterly that breathing was becoming laborious, standing there feeling like an idiot, helpless to do anything but slowly back away from the door and wipe away at the tears on his face.

 

 _There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy place where the Most High dwells._ _God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day._

_Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall, he lifts his voice, the earth melts._

 

In the adjacent hallway, away from the calamity of nurses and pushy hospital staff, he sat pressed up against the wall, tucked in to himself with his knees to his chest, ears straining to the background noise that he tried, with little success, to drown out.  

 

 _Come and see what the Lord has done, the desolations he has brought on the earth._ _He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth. He breaks the bow and shatters the spear; he burns the shields with fire._

_He says, “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Did you like it?


	6. Brother's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel finds himself gleefully embracing Kreese's mantra of 'no mercy' while at Coyote Creek. Featuring Moon, whom reaches out to Miguel a second time. Johnny is able to finally make a small break in getting through to his student.
> 
> Meanwhile, Carmen finds something that worries her.

 

 

Brother's Keeper

 

 

_Encino Hospital Medical Center, 5:51AM.  
_

 

He woke to a dry throat and a dull, throbbing pain behind his eyes.

There was a soft _click... click... click_ , only noticeable through the quiet. A pillow was beneath his face, a feather-light weight draped over his shoulders and rubbing softly against his arm. Turning over, bedsheets rustled underneath him. He didn't remember going to sleep in his bed, but wondered if his mother had somehow carried him to his room, an action she hadn't repeated in nine years when he first grew too tall for her arms.

A wall clock adjacent to the bed ticked by, the shortest hand lagging a little ways behind the six. The sun was almost up. He felt sick, a sudden queasiness squeezing him around the ribs, and he puts a hand to his mouth as the acid in his stomach gnaws at its lining. Miguel sat up, sheets falling from their place at his shoulder, and the sudden rush of blood to his head made the vessels behind his eyes throb, a dark fuzziness eating away at the corners of his vision, and only now did he realize that he'd been in an empty patient room instead of his own bedroom. He felt sick with renewed urgency, and swung his legs over the bed in a hurry.

The bathroom light thrummed dully in its efforts, a white-yellow wash to the entire bathroom while he gagged into the basin, standing barefoot in a white tile room. He coughed, a bitter-tasting fluid rising up his throat, and it felt as if every muscle at the front of his skull had seized up at once.

He eyed his distorted reflection in the metal spout of the tap, hair hanging in his eyes while bile-tinged drool hung off his bottom lip, slick and disgusting. The pain inside the sockets of his eyes was making its way down his spine and quickly becoming unbearable.

 _Maybe I'm dying,_ he thought –just caught in a hellish spiral of pre-mortem effects, health and mind crumbling away under whatever had caused it to begin with– and he almost laughed at that, maybe would have if only the pain wasn't so bad that he wanted to curl up and start sobbing. Miguel shut his eyes again, and even that just exacerbated what was already there. It felt much like an eyelash or grains of sand prodding around the pink underside of his lids, nestled snugly somewhere he could never quite reach. Curling into himself, a belated panic loomed over his thoughts while he idly wished for one of his mother's hugs.

Blood was busy trickling down from halfway up his nose, a metallic tang hitting his mouth as tiny drips spattered into the sink, rolling over the edges of the basin and creating spotty patterns in the clean white. He ran his fingers over his left eye, catching a finger on a hard edge, something he first had mistaken as dried crust over the waterline. It tore rather painfully from the skin as he wiped it away, and a second later made a distinct ting as it hit the sink, rolling onto the drain plate. He glanced down through watering eyes and wiped away the haze, staring for a moment at the sharply-edged lump in the sink.

Plucking it carefully from its spot, bloody residue had the sharp edges tinged in a pinkish stain that discoloured the translucent, greyish-white. This time, his right eye felt that same painful itch, and the tips of his fingers grazed near his tear duct, watching the slow emergence of an identical oddity right below the rim of his eye. Leaning over the sink, the middle of his back had started to ache as the count reached thirty-five, all those soft, ringing sounds in the sink that collected in the mesh of the drain and the insides of Miguel's eyes stung as if he'd rinsed them with chlorine-water.

Somewhat hesitantly, he risked a glance in the mirror. His lips curled back at the state of himself; reddened whites of his eyes and thin, bloody trails down to his mouth that still tasted of bile. He looked down again, to the sink where the little things had all collected, looking like tiny bits of those glittering stone he would sometimes find lying around the beach.

In his confusion, he failed to realize the door had swung open from an equally baffled nurse, a reminder to leave the door open only getting halfway out of her mouth before it trailed off, irritation dissipating fast at the sight of him.

"Oh… my," Words tried hastily to leave her mouth. "You have a little nosebleed?"

Miguel said nothing, throat and nose still rubbed raw, but she must have recognized him by then.

"I'll– I'll go get your mother..."

She shut the door behind her, and Miguel hurriedly scooped the small stones from the drain before anyone could question it.

—

 

The drive was quiet, with Carmen sneaking glances at her son in the passenger seat, balled up tissue under his nose and looking only slightly better than two hours ago. The day seemed to come and go in increments of haste and dragging, like one minute she was stuck in a loop where minutes ticked by like cold syrup, only to step out into the hall and realize that several hours had gone by with her barely leaving her mother's bedside. Nobody seemed to mind, but she didn't miss how the morning nurses had subtly insisted her to go home, and maybe she did look every bit a mess as her son.

"Your head feel okay?"

His head bowed in an attempt to nod. "Yeah, it's okay now… just a little tired still."

Miguel leaned his head against the window, sunlight illuminating all the mussed corners of his still-there bedhead, and Carmen opted to take the side streets home in an effort to let her little boy sleep. She didn't want to have to disturb him yet. Car rides always made him sleepy, and he looked more than ready to drop off.

She had to stop herself from asking the half-serious question, mostly out of habit, 'You tired'?

She didn't need to be told that he didn't sleep well. He'd been so out of it when she'd come across him in the hall that he barely registered her voice, so naturally, she was a little surprised to find him in their living room after barely an hour of being home; his gym bag in hand and ready to step out the door. She'd been fully expecting him to be asleep in his room.

"Don't tell me you're going to karate today."

He looked at her a little funny. "Why would I not be going?"

She shrugged, trying for a sort of nonchalance. "I just thought you were tired… mijo, you should really get some sleep."

He brushes her off. "It's fine, I got sleep. We're doing special training today."

"Okay…" She almost wanted to forbid it, again. "Are you sure? Nobody would blame you for staying, I can tell Johnny you're not feeling well–"

"It's fine, mom."

She stopped mid-sentence, composing herself in time to try and dissuade him more gently. "Miggy, I really don't think you should be fighting today."

He let his gym bag drop from his hand, waiting on her. "I'm fine," he tried, softer this time. "Really."

She frowned. "Your nose."

"What about it?"

"Sue said you looked awful, she wanted to get a doctor to come take a look at you."

His eyes scanned the floor. "It was just a nosebleed," He glanced over her face with some conviction, as much as he could summon in a convincing way. "Maybe it was the stress, I don't know."

"If you want to go," She hesitated a little. "I can't stop you."

She didn't like to baby him too much. She refrained from it when he was in these moods, slightly more frequent now that she thought could be attributed to all the complications of adolescent hormones, stoked further hormones and competition, with a sport that seemed to pride itself on aggression. Her gentle boy was growing up, setting himself up to succeed in whatever way possible. She scolded herself for wanting to stymie that particular mentality; it's usually a good thing to be so driven, but she also knew what could happen in the instance that it goes unchecked, just left to proliferate without any direction.

"Just take it easy today, okay? Tell Johnny, he'll understand."

"Okay."

They eye each other, another one-sided standoff.

She knows she's doing it again, but the edge to his voice left a bad taste in her mouth as she was left with nothing but to watch him leave, staring blankly at the closed door until she had enough sense to shake herself out of it.

—

The sun was sharp and half-blinding from this angle, and Miguel attempted to look towards the left, off the side trying to evade it. It felt like the past few days stretched on, and in a way it did considering the circumstances of last night, any sleep he had was just a fruitless exercise in fogging up his mind with sleep inertia.

He felt himself drifting in and out of awareness, his head in a fishbowl reverie, staring at a tree some ways away until his brain's synapses decided to fire into rapid action, immediate attention narrowing in on something decidedly out of place. Nothing but a barely-there movement in the trees, his heart rate involuntarily speeding up as his phone buzzed in two short successions.

Her still kept her name in his phone, because every once in awhile she'd text him, asking how Eli was. How _he_ was.

His eyes darted around for a moment trying to locate her, until she caught his attention with her frantically waving hand, a somewhat counterproductive measure if she truly didn't wish to be seen  by anyone. She nodded to Miguel, beckoning to him from her place behind the large oak tree near an adjacent plaza, the thick trunk managing to obscure nearly all of her. Miguel mumbled to her in his confusion, something that felt supremely dumb considering it wasn't as if she could hear him. He quickly turned to check for anyone who might've noticed them before jogging over, utter bewilderment never leaving his face.

"What are you _doing?"_

"I didn't want Hawk to see me." Her full lips spread out into a grin. "I went to a shaman." She'd said it as if it answered anything at all, and reached into her bag. "I've gotta give you something."

He scanned the ground behind her. "Where did you come from?"

"I'm just parked over there," She gestured in the direction on the lot across the street, where Miguel only now noticed her rather large, red car. "Sorry, I didn't know where else to find you..."

Her hand finally came up from her overcrowded bag and pulled out something, but despite having a clear view of it in her open hand, Miguel had no idea what he was supposed to be looking at.

"Moon, what the hell is that?"

"I made it. Well _kinda,_ I put the string on it." She nodded, all confidence in her plan, but Miguel's eyes did little to mirror the excitement so abundant in hers. "The Shaman told me what to do, he said this will draw out all the negative energy from whoever's influencing him and put him right back on the road to inner peace."

He tried to hold back the complete disbelief from his tone. " _Oh?_ "

"I know it'll help him sort out whatever is going on."

Miguel shrugged. "Okay... but–"

And she carried on, and on. "You've just gotta trust me, you do trust me right?"

He sighed, sick of this back and forth. "Yeah alright, but Moon," He dipped his head a little so that they were eye to eye, and held her half-vacant gaze. "What is it?"

She seemed to snap out of her enthusiasm-fueled stupor. "Oh! It's, like a charm. It's called an amulet." She points to the design carved in its face. "Durga is such an important Goddess, I learned so much talking to him. You should go with me sometime!"

He stared at her. Was he hearing that correctly? An amulet for inner peace? Between this and the crystals coming out of his tear ducts, he wasn't entirely sure if he'd simply become sick from grief overnight, and was currently experiencing some kind of hellishly vexing fever dream.

"An am-u-let?"  He tried.

"You need to give it to Hawk. Listen, I know it sounds totally crazy–"

"Completely." Miguel glanced behind him where the rest of the class is congregating on the sidewalk, splitting up the carpools to wherever the hell they were going today. "Listen Moon, I've gotta go–"

She grabbed both his hands, the metal object now sitting in the middle of his palms as he stared it down for a moment with downwards tug of his mouth as if it were something terribly offensive.

"Okay, please just put this in his bag or something, and you have to do it in secret, he can't know it's there."

He mentally fumbled. "I–"

"Ple- _ase_?"

He stared at her again, into those big, pleading eyes. He shook his head a little.

"Yeah, okay." His top lip curls a little in exasperation. His patience was wearing thin. Whatever witchy concoction she'd dreamed up from this shaman visit was frankly ridiculous, and her overt persistence was grating on his already-frayed nerves, _but_ , he wasn't about to just turn her down if she already put all this thought into it. It might've been a bit mean to just say no. "I've really gotta go now though, okay?"

With one last squeeze she finally let go, Miguel feeling the weight of her solution held weakly within his right hand.

"I promise, this'll all make sense soon."

That particular sentence seemed to come out of her mouth all wrong, and for a second he debated whether she'd uttered it at all.

"I'll see ya later. Good luck today!"

She departed back to the lot where her car stood some ways away and Miguel lingered on her a while longer, while she looked back and waved him goodbye. By the time he stepped out from behind the tree's shadow, he could hear Aisha calling out for him.

—

Coyote Creek was a half-hour drive from the city, where winding roads had no glimpses of houses through the elevated clusters of trees, and Miguel watched suburbs melt away into thick greenery, wondering just how hot the air would become under a bright, blue sky; no clouds in sight while the sun poured in through everyone's bedroom windows.

Aisha turns down another road and Miguel's eyes become tiny slits as he fought the abrupt onslaught of light as it shifted through the trees.

"No offence, but you look like hell."

He clicked his tongue, tracing the tip of the back of his teeth. "Rough night."

"Oh?" She glanced at him through her peripheral, turning her head to look at him but swivelling back just as fast, looking as if fighting back having two hands on the wheel in a somewhat tell-tale display of inexperience.

"You can talk to me you know, if you want," Miguel's eyes went to his shoes like he already had a feeling of what was coming. Despite her tentativeness, she voiced her question anyway, half out of pure curiosity and half out of a somewhat-urgent concern for him. "How's your Yaya doing? Are the treatments working?"

He shrugged, barely. "A little."

"That's good, any progress really does help."

"I guess."

But hearing the stiffness in his voice was enough for her to understand, and the look she spared him was longer, rather solicitous in her sympathy. "I'm sorry, Miguel. She'll be fine… it'll be fine, I bet." –a beat of silence– "And even if it isn't, you know I'm here for you, like whenever, right? You know that?"

There was no response, but a slight exhale that she figured was his way of acknowledging her. She knew him well enough by now, and she wasn't really expecting him to be properly vocal.

As they followed their sensei's black Dodge, Aisha gripped the steering wheel with two hands. Weakly grappling around with her thoughts, the remaining minutes of the drive was spent with divided attention between the road ahead, and how Miguel's neck craned back onto the car's headrest, a sort of stuttering to his breaths that he was trying hard to suppress.

 

\--

The moment she stepped into her mother's room, she reeled a bit at the smell that hit her. It was a distinct smell, one that was familiar to her nose, but unplaceable at the moment. It was most certainly a bad smell.

She'd been familiar with the various smells of sick and weak patients, and although there was a familiar odour that struck her as a metallic sweetness, there was a distinctly sour smell that overpowered it.

Milk. It smelled like off milk.

She felt a tad silly sniffing delicately around the room with her nose tilted in the air trying to grasp onto where the smell lead her, roaming step by step until she nearly bumped into the bed. She flipped back the sheets more, but no evidence of anything just left her more confused as to the source.

Perhaps underneath the bed, something had spilled.

Getting to her hands and knees, she lifted the bedskirt and peered underneath, spying what she recognized as a little bowl she sometimes used to cook chicken in, and dear god, the smell was certainly coming from there. She wondered if she mother had vomited and forgot about it. She tugged it out slowly, trying to suppress the amount of air she could take into her lungs as the bowl resurfaced from the space below the bed.

Carmen's gag reflex reacted before her thoughts did, weakly protesting what was in front of her face. Holding one hand over her mouth as she held the bowl by it's rim, the congealed, reddish fluid clung to the sides of the clay in dried clumps, and it took her a minute to figure out what exactly she was looking at.

She tilted it around, the yellow-ish root rolling around in the mess. He mouth slightly hung open in shock, and she found nothing more logical to do than to simply throw it away so she'd never have to look at it again. She bagged it in a hurry, stuffing it in the bottom of the apartment's dumpster. She slammed the lid closed and stalked back inside, suddenly feeling filthy.

She ran her hands under hot water, scrubbing up to her wrists. Warily, she glanced to his bedroom door, closed as always.

Carmen felt guilty at the mere thought. Respectful mother's didn't snoop. She could respect his privacy and just talk with him later about this. Maybe he had read something online and decided a non-traditional medicine was worth a shot. Maybe that is what held been reading about all this time, and he was ashamed to admit it under the assumption she would chide him for it. As disgusting and baffling as it was, she wanted to think there was a good reason for it.

A small part of her mind _needed_ to know.

She stepped away from the sink and right up to his door, raking her wet hands across her thighs to wipe away the droplets of water. She felt nervous, like she shouldn't be doing this, although she knew she had a right to after all this time. She wanted to know what was in that damn book of his. She wanted to know what was going on with her son. She turned the handle of his door that had no lock and pushed it open, immediately hitting a chair; the first attempt at blockade.

And at that she felt almost angry, righteous in her incessant curiosity.

She pushed until it gave in, hearing the chair clatter to the floor.

 

\--

Miguel wandered in the silence of the woods, keenly aware of the sounds he made now that only one set of footsteps guided him through the trees. In the quietness he allowed himself a bit of a breather, a small bubble of space that remained unhindered by anyone, right there in the middle of the woods with the things that already existed there long before he went trodding there and running freely at polar ends of him, crawling insects beneath his feet and birds gliding above his head.

He looked up, a buzzard's caw verberating in the distance, and he can see it just barely whisk by his line of sight, obscuring the glare of the sun.

He hadn't found Eli yet, and he suspected many others were likely kicked off by now, making the hunt for his friend that much more urgent, as if too much time spent aimlessly meandering around the quiet bush would be spent stalked like a wounded, freshly-bleeding gazelle.

A sudden whirring, almost-whispy sound overhead had him ducking in cover, looking around wildly until it became clear what the source was, and Miguel's eyes kept in line with the fleeting jingles of its wings as it went in slow circles around him, his feet shifting underneath him to follow.

Miguel smiled broadly, relieved almost. "Hola, ¿qué estás haciendo aquí?"

He held up a hand, palm down while the fairy buzzed about, trying to get it to land. "Venir..." The fairy chittered in its usual manner but made no move to sit where Miguel intended.

He chuckled. "¿Qué es? Quieres tocar?"

It hovered above his nose until the sudden snapping of a branch to Miguel's left ripped his attention away. The fairy zipped towards the trees, up and out of faster than Miguel could really grasp in time. He looked back at the now empty space before his attention returned to Hawk, standing off to the side and looking amused.

"You hallucinating?" He quipped.

Miguel's face flushed a little, looking briefly again to where the fairy had zoomed away into the clouds. He wondered how much he'd heard.

Hawk stepped closer. "Finally a challenge," He subtly flashes the headbands in his pocket. "Five kills," He touted. "How 'bout you? You manage to get any in-between talking to the mosquitoes?" Eli chuckled in pure jest, but Miguel was too fixated with the earlier revelation to get much out of it.

Miguel's bout of silence never ceased, and Hawk seemed to sober up at the awkwardness, deep giggles dissipating into thin air. His smile faded. "What's the matter?"

"Did you ever once even think about confessing while we were all busy killing ourselves doing burpees?"

Eli shifted uncomfortably under Miguel's accusatory tone but tried to mask it by glaring at him, holding eye contact in a way that he thought looked intimidating.

"Confessing what?"

"You trashed Miyagi-Do," Miguel pointed to his chest, referring to what he knew to be hanging in the dip of his breastbone. "Stole the medal of honour." He spat, disapproval clear.

"Are you serious? Who cares. They had to learn a lesson," He enunciated his words, laying the attitude on thick. To Miguel, he sounded less affronted and more like he was mocking him. "I had to put them in their place… settle the score. Someone had to stand up for Cobra Kai's image."

Miguel threw the same pettiness back, anger coming out in full burst. "Get over yourself. You trashed their dojo over a Yelp review. Stop trying to play the hero."

"Why don't you stop? What's been with you lately? Listen, I'm sorry Sam's getting fucked by some boy band reject but get over it already, it's getting pathetic hearing you piss and moan all the time."

Miguel stepped forward, trying to quell the building resentment with a shake of his head. "This isn't about her."

Eli scoffed. "The hell it isn't. You've been acting like such a cuck lately, trying to defend some piece of ass." Hawk, now close enough to see the clear anger in his friend's eyes, kept going. "You want the medal so badly, why don't you come get it? Then you can have something to go running to Sam with," He watched as Miguel's scowl deepened, grinning smugly with the satisfaction of getting under his skin. "And maybe, just maybe, she'll give you the privilege of talking to her again–"

"So you do fight for yourself."

Miguel's expression remained somewhat flat, certainly not what Hawk was expecting based on the way his face seemed to fall a little at the anticlimactic remark. Hawk looked at him a little funny, evidently about to say something more insulting before Miguel cut him off with a laugh that sounded more like a cough, finally breaking the shell of composure. "You wanna talk pathetic? I'm not the one pulling some Dr. Jekyll bullshit here."

Hawk's features scrunched up. "What are you talking about? My mom's right, you really are losing it."

"It's a scar, Eli." Miguel watched the sneer form on his friend's mouth, but all it did was encourage him. He almost stumbled over the words, the insult feeling so foreign even as the thought was burning at the back of his throat for months, but in a fleeting moment of humiliation, he thought of nothing more effective than to hit him where it hurt.

"Do you see me playing pretend here? Nobody fucks around with me because I actually stand up for myself."

"Yeah, and Kyler beat your scrawny ass because you didn't know how to throw a punch."

"At least I tried! You fucking ran, and left me there!" He was yelling now, invading Hawk's personal space, and all those imaginary arguments Miguel's ever had finally coming to the surface. "You're gonna call me a pussy for trying to tell you not to start a dojo war over nothing, when you can't even fight one-on-one for something that actually matters? Why don't you ever just fight back alone and not with three other people to help you? You're a _coward–"_

Miguel felt a stinging pain where his braces suddenly cut into his bottom lip from the impact of Eli's fist, as if he were trying to shove the offending words right back into his mouth.

From there it was a quick escalation from bad to worse, finesse thrown out the window as Miguel tried to put some of his sensei's grappling techniques to use, rolling on the ground letting rage-driven instinct be his guide while Eli's knuckles beat hard against his ribs, feeling much like clumsy, flailing kids.

Miguel could overhear talking some ways behind him as he managed to get to his feet, the shiny red smeared over Eli's nose matching what was slowly welling up in his own mouth.

He leered over him, panting hard while Eli didn't so much as flinch when blood ran over Miguel's parted mouth, landing in a gob on his cheek, sticky and spit-soaked. Eli glared up at him.

"That all you got?'

In an instant, Miguel's brain made a near-forgotten connection to a year ago, feeling the hellish burn in his lungs from lack of oxygen and sheer panic, except this time there was no inhaler to quell the pain, the wind effectively knocked out of him once Eli had slammed him into the tree like he was trying to shatter him.

He gasped, eyes screwing shut a moment while Hawk took the first opportunity to drive a hard punch to the space between stomach and sternum, and Miguel's lungs felt like they'd nearly stopped working. Before Eli had time to hit him again though, his legs had the decency to move, his brain still lagging two steps behind his body as he let muscle memory take over and doing his best to ignore the pain, blocking, jabbing, hitting on automatic.

_"No!"_

He intended it to be as much of a riposte to his previous remark as it was a rejection of letting Hawk get the better of him. Miguel didn't let up until he was back in the dirt, blue eyes looking up at him with a scowl, the jagged scar on his lip made uglier by the blood against pale skin. Reaching under the neckline of Eli's t-shirt, Miguel wound his fingers across the chain and yanked, breaking it loose from around his neck.

 _"That's_ all I've got."

Eli breathed hard through his open mouth, wheezing as blood weighed down any air trying to pass through his nose, and didn't look away even as Miguel turned his back.

Trudging up towards the group, Miguel wasn't feeling at all triumphant about his win. Even if there was a sliver of joy to be found in this particular victory, it would have been snatched away in the instant his eyes landed on his sensei, staring Miguel down in shock as he followed through in Kreese's order, kicking Hawk in the jaw so hard that he could hear his teeth snap together on the impact.

"Diaz–!" Johnny was gaping at him, brows pulled together in disbelief as his hand slowly made the way back to his side, already much too late in stopping it. Miguel's feet managed to work out of pure indifference to it all, walking up to where the two teams had congregated, showing off the red headband to the clouds, allowing himself some pride in his stance.

He took notice of Kreese though the loud voices of his teammates, speaking somewhat low in Johnny's ear but still loud enough for him to catch the tail end of it.

"... got one hell of a killer instinct, you should be proud."

Miguel let the words turn over in his head. Killer instinct.

Kreese walked calmly to where Miguel stood, hand once again finding Miguel's shoulder, thumb rubbing into the ridge of bone along the top. "Good work, Mr. Diaz."

Miguel's mouth twitched into a faint smile at the praise, contrasted deeply to Johnny's apparent revulsion to it. He moved quickly once Kreese had stepped away from them, coming to stand in front of Miguel and inserting himself hastily into the teenager's view.

"What was that?"

"What do you mean?"

"That's not how I taught you to fight, you don't kick someone when they're down, remember? Or did you forget that already?"

Miguel's cheeks burned a little with the accusation. "What do expect? You're the one that brought him. This is what he taught us, what did you expect?

The sudden hurt in Johnny's eyes cut through the haze, and Miguel's thoughts were suddenly firing at what felt like hundreds per second in guilt-driven anxiety, choking out any further defence and replacing it with nothing suitable for coherent speech. Miguel shoved past his sensei, intent on fleeing the scene as fast as he could without breaking into a run.

Johnny followed quickly behind, uncaring if running after a student looked unprofessional or just plain stupid, his only real goal to stop Miguel from getting lost in the woods from his own stubbornness.

"Can you hold on?"

No response. Miguel keeps long strides onwards until Johnny nearly clotheslines him.

"Hold it, Diaz!"

He whipped him around by the arm, and Miguel's eyes were clear and readable, finally free from the apathetic gloom swimming there only moments prior.

Johnny kept holding onto his arm as if he were anchoring him. Words float up. "What was that back there? What'd I tell you about kicking someone when they're down? About honour? You remember that?"

Silence.

"Come on," Johnny's shoulders sagged. Not this again. "Talk to me."

He looked down, mumbling something that Johnny didn't quite get much of besides 'You let him.'

"What?"

Miguel's head shot back up, his discomfort evident. "What do you _want_ from me?"

Johnny exhaled. "To talk, a little bit. Talk to me, what's been up with you lately? Is it —he hesitated— "Your Yaya-"

"No."

"Listen, I'm sorry that shit's been all over the place lately, but–"

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

Miguel huffed. "You're the one that said to trust him, you left him with us for a week and let him change all these things in class, and now you're wondering why we're listening to him?"

That stopped Johnny's train of thought, wholly unexpected. "Is that what you're pissed about?"

Miguel almost sneered. "Yeah, that's what I'm pissed about."

Johnny let his eyes roam over his face, how his shoulders slumped in pitiful defeat. The kid was begging in his own way, pleading for something to happen and fix what had been accumulating in the space he'd willingly built between them.

"You're scaring me."

Diaz's voice was uncharacteristically low, an innocent hitch to his voice. "Why?"

"You just are," Johnny stated, trying for Miguel's sake to keep the frustration out of his voice, to be gentler somehow than he usually was whenever Miguel got too moody. "You wanna tell me what's going on?" Johnny's hand went to the back of his neck, skin feeling warm under his touch in a way that he knew had little to do with the building humidity. "You can be honest."

The stretched out lull in conversation was almost enough to make Johnny say screw it and walk away, just leave the kid in whatever brooding state he was currently in until he heard him emit a heavy sigh, shaky and unsure.

"It's just… you brought him in. I mean, I told you what I thought and you didn't even trust me enough to listen... you said it was okay. You said you knew him better than I did."

An acute sense of dread was piling onto him, all he'd feared coming forward in the one person he thought would never have to be let down. It was like he'd failed him yet again, left him alone to defend himself and only be irrevocably hurt.

Johnny's feet pittered around in the dirt and fallen leaves, standing uneasily in Miguel's presence. He felt like utter shit.

"I'm sorry, Diaz." He tried.

Miguel looked down, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "For what?"

"For just, _God–"_ He nearly choked on the sudden influx of tightness building up in his throat, feeling like it was trying to squeeze the words out. "For Kreese, I guess. I knew it was a bad idea but I just– I just wanted to try and give him another chance… it was a mistake." Johnny suddenly scowled, the tough front coming through again, leaving the brittle nature of his tone to fade away to assurance. "And you've all been paying for it."

Miguel finally made a reach for him, a gentle hand patting his shoulder, and Johnny had rarely felt so relieved from a simple touch. "It's okay."

"It's not okay." He countered. "I should've listened." To you, to anyone, he thought. "I'm gonna deal with this."

Diaz fell silent again for some time, while Johnny looked back at the students heading for where they'd parked their cars, Kreese leading them in haphazard line out of the dense trees.

Johnny looked back at the still-quiet Miguel, not expecting to see the happiness that graced his bruised face, swollen lip pushing up a smile against his cheeks.

"Gonna be how it was before? Just you and us."

Johnny blinked, swallowed. "Yeah."

Miguel's smile deepened, only made weaker by the flicker of pain when the cut on his lip stretched open. "Good," he said. "See you tomorrow, then? Back in class?"

"You bet." Johnny's humour was back in its usual form, stern but soft as he pointed to Miguel's face. "And put some ice on that or something asap, your mom's gonna be all over that."

Miguel chuckled. "Yes, sensei."

A small sense of pride welled up in Johnny's chest, and he flicked his head in the direction of the retreating students. "C'mon let go, before they leave us here. You need a ride?"

"Uh…" Miguel walked with him in step, finally feeling the ache in his bones from the earlier exertion, and right now wanted nothing more than to flop down in Aisha's air-conditioned car. "No, Aisha's gonna give me a ride back I think." Miguel chewed on that for a moment more. He knew an olive branch when he saw one, and he felt rude at this point to simply brush it off. "But uh, later on, do you maybe wanna grab something to eat? We can go to that burger place you like."

Johnny didn't even hesitate, hand coming up and ruffling Miguel's hair as he spoke. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Miguel grinned. There was a casualness to Johnny's tone as there always was, but he was delighted to hear that excitement buried underneath.

As they walked back, he could feel the weight of Moon's gift as it moved about in his pants pocket, and looked to where Hawk was some ways in front of them, following Tory and Kreese into the clearing. Aisha looked back and gestured with a subtle flick of her head towards him. She wasn't too pleased, apparently.

He figured, with all Moon's effort and Aisha's worry, that he had to at least try and mend what had already been done, and with all that was happening that it was better to have one less weight on his shoulders if he could ever help it.

In the often-forgotten side pocket of Eli's backpack, Miguel spied an opportunity to hide the trinket it in plain sight. It would always be in his possession, unknowingly, just like Moon wanted.

The zipper barely made it a quarter way before he was rudely turned around, a familiar heavy hand digging into his shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

Miguel froze in place. He could feel the expression on his face turn anxious. He was always terrible at lying; emotions always showed so clearly on his face. He remembered the time that Samantha told him she loved how his eyes could tell the whole story, how it was calming to look at his face and see his intentions.

Today it wasn't convenient nor was it cute; it was telling and suspicious. Kreese's eyes looked to Miguel's hand, caught in the front pocket of Eli's backpack.

"That's not your bag," Kreese's expression turned mocking. "You stealing something?"

Miguel weakly shook his head, "No I- I was just–"

He grabbed hold of Miguel's wrist and pulled, fingers holding on tightly to the small bundle. Kreese's hand dug into his elbow as he held it up, Miguel's fingers still clenched tightly around it in a fruitless attempt to hide. Miguel lunged for it.

"Not so fast," With the hand that wasn't currently holding his elbow locked into position, Kreese pried Miguel's fingers open and the object slipped quickly through his palm, ripped away from his grip and held up out of reach. "What is this?"

"It's nothing..."

"Don't lie to me." Kreese squeezed Miguel's arm, fingers digging into the skin as Miguel's winced a little at the pain. "Why do you want it so much?"

"It's just something, it's personal. Please, I need it back… can I just have it back?" He was trying to speak quietly, well aware of the twelve or so students still lingering around. Miguel's urgency was doing him no favours; if anything it only served to further reinforce Kreese's interest.

"Well, what is this for? Is it important?"

Miguel didn't attempt to reach for it again. He looked around in a panic, eyeing the students that had collected around the treeline who had been busy surveying the pair with uncertainty.

"What's this for Mr. Diaz?" Kreese chuckled, moulding a joke from Miguel's panic, holding the small object up to his face so that the light could hit it. "Did your mother give you this? This some Mexican voodoo trinket to sabotage your friend's fighting chance? Perhaps we need a do-over."

His brain was betraying him, his angry silence only furthering the accusations. Instead, he made another reach for it, fruitlessly.

Kreese held it out of reach. "Or were you just stealing it?"

Miguel scowled. "No."

"Then what's this for?"

"I need that, I need it back."

Kreese's eyes strayed from Miguel, searching over his head for Hawk, standing some feet away, confusion clear on his face. Kreese whirled Miguel around forcing him to face the rest of the students. With Kreese's chest up against his back, his arm moved to pin Miguel further to him in a pseudo-chokehold, pressing hard enough to just barely restrict a noticeable amount of air from his lungs. Miguel squirmed and Kreese held him more firmly in place dangling the object above his head, held out towards his potentially-former friend.

"Hawk!" Miguel's breathing hitches in a panic that has nothing to do with the pressure on his windpipe. "Diaz has a little gift for you."

Miguel's face fell rather pitifully at Eli's look of utter bewilderment, as if was so put off by what he was seeing that he could barely stomach the thought of it.

Kreese's voice was at his temple now, quieter than before under the guise of mordant curiosity. "Do you have an explanation for this?"

"I…" He tried.

His mouth wouldn't work. His anxiety had frozen the words in his throat and a painful, oppressive lump was growing in their place. Kreese's feet start to move, dragging Miguel with him and forcing his feet to move in tandem until he was face to face with Hawk.

By now nearly all eyes were on them, including Johnny. Miguel squirmed a little and was met with an acutely painful pressure as fingers dug into his clavicle. He grimaced against both the pain and the look on Hawk's face as Kreese held the evidence in front of Hawk's nose.

"It's not… " Miguel floundered blindly for the right words, but it all felt useless like this. "It's not harmful, it's nothing bad!"

"Then what _is_ it, Mr. Diaz?"

Johnny was approaching them quickly, looking stuck between the apparent wrong Miguel had done and the way Kreese was holding onto him.

"The hell is going on?" He stalked over with haste, Miguel still trying unsuccessfully to break away, lithe fingers tentatively on Kreese's forearm as it tugged closer to his throat. Johnny stepped forward with an outstretched hand, attempting to yank Miguel free.

"Let go of him."

His face was a clear picture of disgust, but to Miguel's relief it was not for anything he'd apparently done; all the disdain in his glare was reserved strictly for Kreese.

"Let go of my student."

The pressure was released after a few seconds, and Miguel felt like he might drop. He had to steady himself as he backed away, tucking himself as inconspicuous as possible by Johnny's side.

"There's something wrong with that student of yours," Kreese didn't even bother to look at him and Miguel silently fumed, listening to the man talk about him like he wasn't even there. "Look at this Johnny," He stated. "Take a good look."

Kreese turned his palm out towards his sensei, the mysterious object sitting neatly in the middle and looking downright incriminating on Miguel's behalf.

His face was burning. He wanted to run away, to just bolt back down the path. Kreese dropped the object into Johnny's hand and returned his focus to the younger still without so much as glancing at him, and Miguel's retaliative glare was burdened by the looming threat of tears.

"Might want to sort out whatever is going on in that head of his," As Kreese spoke, Miguel's gaze shifted between him and Johnny, both men looking disappointed and angry, but for entirely different reasons. "Before he does something that puts us all on the line."

—

 

Miguel's head was filled to the brim with thoughts and scenarios as he walked the path up the road to where Sam's house stood, still tall and intimidating as ever. Walking up the path to her door felt bitterly reminiscent of the year prior. Regardless of his heavy feet, he walked up the front stoop and knocked in three rapid taps.

He was expecting her to be surprised, maybe even pissed, like he was stalking her or something when she just wanted to be left alone. Maybe she'd take it and just tell him off, thinking it was him all along who'd taken it no matter what he'd tell her. Maybe she'd actually spare him a few words despite it all.

Maybe she wouldn't even say anything.

Miguel's head was full of blooming thoughts and scenarios, all being chased away by the ones proceeding them until the door opened and he was confronted by a situation he hadn't even had the slightest inclination to dream of.

He was not expecting to see Robby standing there, looking accusatory and angry.

"What do you want, Diaz? Did you not get it through your head before-"

Miguel stops him mid-sentence, holding out his hand in a half-closed fist and Robby shuts up out of pure curiosity.

"I just, I wanted to give this back," He stutters a little when Robby gaped at what was in his hand, eyes sharp and focused. "I know how important this is."

Robby swore under his breath, green eyes trailing over his open palm. "I knew it, I knew you took it."

Miguel was quick to correct him. "No, I didn't."

Robby frowned a little, looking from the medal of honour in his hand and back to Diaz, who was fighting the urge to look down at his feet under the intensity of Robby's glare. Robby finally swiped it up.

"I promise. I had nothing to do with any of it."

"And you expect me to believe you?"

Surprisingly, Miguel shook his head. "No, not at all… just tell Sam I'm sorry, please."

The few seconds Robby stood at the door, the frantic energy humming between the two was nearly agonizing. The subsequent silence didn't bother Miguel, not did the door's firm closing in his face, a conversation done and over without much promise.

He grabbed his board and walked back down the driveway, letting his feet propel him gently back down the path. He spared himself a pitiful look back, assuming the eyes he could feel on his retreating back were only Robby checking the certainty of his departure, glaring at him through the front doors tiny glass window and having no intention to tell Sam he had so much as stopped by, just to apologize.

—

_18555 Burbank Blvd, 6:51PM._

 

A familiar sound reached Eli's ears, sending his head up again and looking around at the apartment's entrance gate, standing up when Miguel rolled through the courtyard on his board. He called out to him, barely suppressing a chuckle when Miguel jumped a little. 

"You alright? Don't worry, I'm not lookin' for round two."

There was a level of hesitance in Miguel's gait, and Eli knew the black eye and bruised jaw he was sporting probably looked worse in the grimy, egg-coloured wash of light.

Miguel's hand goes to rub the back of his neck. "Hey, man… uh, what're you doing here?"

Eli shrugged, trying for a sort of casualness. "Thought I'd drop by and stuff, you know. Haven't seen you outside class in a while."

Miguel nodded. "Uh, yeah."

"Don't worry, I wasn't waiting too long, I kinda figured you'd come home eventually." He tried to lighten the mood. "I know your mom flips out if you're out too late."

Miguel grinned like he was half embarrassed and half relieved. "Uh, about today-"

"We're cool." Eli finished for him. "We were enemies for a day, forget about it. No big deal." He didn't know whether to bring up what had been simmering in the back of his brain for hours, turning over into itself a million times over until he finally got up off his ass and made an excuse to his mom about why he was heading to Miguel's this late.

Miguel finally smiled. "Right on."

With the barrier broken, they met in the middle as they stepped closer to each other, light falling off of Eli's frame and replacing the blur of shadows on Miguel's face.

Never being one to dwell on the awkward, Eli fished the item out of his pocket and held it out to him. "You want this back by the way?" The tentative smile slipped right off Miguel's face but Eli continued, oblivious. "What is it, anyway?"

Miguel's shoulders tensed the slightest bit, a faint but noticeable change when he was this close. "Uh, it's- Moon gave it to me. It's hers… well, kinda… she wanted me to give it to you." Eli's confusion deepened, and Miguel blurted out the remainder in a half-coherent mumble. "For good luck 'anstuff."

Eli examined the thing again, eyes roaming over all the lines he'd already traced in his head, now in a new light with the fact that Moon had meant it for him.

"Oh."

"... Yup."

He let his thumb run over the edge, voice coming out softer. "So you talked to Moon?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Today, actually-" Miguel's expression dropped the hesitant front, "Actually, we've talked a few times before… she uh, asks about you sometimes."

Blue eyes snapped back up at the news. "Really?"

"Yeah, a few times."

He felt a little stupid, hanging onto this like the pathetic mess he accused Miguel of being earlier, a twinge of guilt flaring up in his stomach at the memory, but shoving it back down when the clench of his jaw fired up a pain down his throat.

 _Nevermind,_ he thought, _they already evened the score._

But still, he couldn't help the curiosity that clouded his brain, the swell of images it roused in him at the mere mention that Moon had indeed, talked to Miguel about him, and even gone as far as to give him something specifically for him.

It felt damn good, actually.

"Right on," He smirked. "She miss me?"

Miguel just shrugged. "You could talk to her, I guess."

He played up his indifference, averting his eyes in case Miguel happened to see the emotions collecting there, trying to keep his tone even amongst the sudden onslaught of euphoria. "Guess I could go over there, I ain't about to play telephone between you two. Besides..." He swallowed, the words almost feeling silly this way, but the urge to say them greatly overwhelmed any qualms he had right then. He met Miguel's eyes again. "Prime opportunity for make-up sex."

Miguel made a face, voice hitching in a way that Eli learned was characteristic of him vaguely disagreeing. "I guess so."

Eli realized that Miguel hadn't made any move to take the whatever it was -the metal pendant thing- back from where it sat in his hand, and quickly shoved it into his back pocket. The silence stretched on for a thoughtful moment and for a second Eli was too caught up in his plans for relationship mending to realize it, until Miguel spoke up again.

"So, uh, are we cool then? About… today?"

Eli's attention was back to him. "Yeah, for sure. Don't worry about it. Like I said, we were enemies for an afternoon…" The line of thought ached to be added to, maybe a little more reassurance that Eli mentally reassured himself that was strictly for Miguel's sake, and allowed himself to indulge in a little more. "We're like brothers, remember?"

He tacked on a smile to that rather, in his opinion, heartfelt sentiment, but still, there was something off in Miguel's expression.

He sighed. "What?"

Miguel didn't follow. "Hm?"

"What's been up with you lately?" He paused for a second, remembering what Aisha had told him earlier that day, but at the same time considering the possible consequences of violating her "don't tell Miguel I told you" clause. "Something wrong?"

Of course,  he already knew something was wrong, but he might as well give Miguel a chance to tell him on his own. Maybe the cloud hanging over him would stop its constant downpour on everything. Happy, confident Miguel was something he found himself missing. They couldn't very well bond over girls and karate and all the other shit they usually got up to if Miguel was stuck in his own head all the damn time. First sensei, now him. What the hell was happening lately?

He tried again when it became clear his friend had gone mute. "Dude, for real, what is it?"

It felt like goddamn forever until Miguel bothered to answer, and the nervous energy that radiated down to Eli's fingertips was just sparking and fizzing with no real outlet to come to. His foot tapped on the ground absently. 

"It's just," Miguel stuttered a little as he spoke, "Things have been shitty lately, is all… I guess… actually, they've been really shitty, like _really_ , really-"

"Okay, that's it." Eli slipped Miguel's backpack forcibly off his shoulder and dropped it at his doorstep.

"What are you doing?" 

"You're not spending another day bitching to yourself about how everything is shit… you said it yourself, it's been a while, so no time like the present."

" _You_ said-"

"Come on," He practically yanked a half-protesting Miguel by the arm, leading him down the street and out of the apartment block. "You're not wallowing in self-pity tonight if I have any say in it, this is getting truly pathetic."

\--

 

An hour and a half later Miguel's head was fuzzy and warm-feeling, a 12-pack of beer nearly finished between the two of them.

"It should worry me that this is the first thing you turn to."

"It not," Hawk retorted. "Training first, always. Can't slack off… and besides, I've got a weight goal to meet," He poked lightly at Miguel's bicep, "Something you should consider if you're gonna last more than two rounds in the tournament next year."

Miguel gulped down another mouthful, swatting Eli's hand away. "Yeah, okay. You've got what, five whole pounds on me?" He chuckled. "And I'm sorry, who won today?"

The embarrassment at the loss had been substantially dulled at that point, now feeling like a more like a funny memory, and Eli laughs at Miguel's self-assuredness. He stood up, a little sway to his gait. "I know I said I wasn't here for a rematch, but if you wanna see what five pounds can do, I'm all for it."

Miguel looked up again, a smile tugging at his mouth as he stands up with him. "You're drunk."

Eli snorted. "And you're what? Having vertigo?" He watched Miguel struggle to stabilize his footing, toes digging into the carpet while he attempted to balance himself on his bedroom wall before finally sliding down again, opting to sit next to his bed. "Hits you harder when you stand up again, doesn't it?"

Miguel nods, the same grin still on his face. Eli had missed this.

"See? Isn't this better? No more moping around."

Miguel cocked an eyebrow. "I'm no doctor, but I don't think drinking is a thing I should start relying on, if that's what you're implying."

"Not the booze, dumbass." Miguel craned his head back against his bed frame, eyeing him. "Being in the moment. Like, what are you thinking about?"

"... I kinda need to piss."

"Exactly. Not Sam, not your family, not Sensei, not Kreese or any other shit going on. You're living in the moment." Feeling somewhat showy, he continued, daring to poke Miguel in the face with his foot. "Starting to remind me of Demetri…" There was another, somewhat telling quip that threatened to erupt under the pretense of that thought, but he stomped it down in time. "You worry too much."

Miguel's smile wavered, gnawing on his bottom lip. "Yeah well… it's been hard not to lately."

Eli grimaced a bit at his friend's momentary shift. He didn't need him slipping into another angry, drunken mess. Keene wasn't around but right now he didn't need the misfortune of saying something that would set him off on another Sam-fueled tantrum.

He takes a generous sip of his own beer, leaning heavily against Miguel's desk. There was a calendar on the wall to his left, crossed out days and arrows to god knows where looking like a jumbled mess of nothing and everything. He didn't bother to ask and instead mumbled out the only other prevailing thought in his head.

"Tory's hot, dude. I'll never understand you."

_"What?"_

"And she's a Cobra Kai…"

Miguel made an odd sound in his throat. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"If you want Sam back so much–"

Miguel straightened, blinking the hazy look from his eyes. "It's not about Sam."

"The hell it isn't. You went to her place today..." He stopped himself, but not in time, trailing off pathetically. Fuck, now Aisha was gonna be pissed at him too.

"How did you know that?"

He quickly looked anywhere but Miguel, avoiding his glare. "Aisha told me."

"She did?"

"Uh… yeah."

Fuck it, if Miguel was gonna be pissed off at him for knowing, then he could be pissed off at Aisha for telling. "Today… after I kept bugging her to tell me what the hell was going on. She didn't know what that thing was for, but she said you wanted to give the medal back to Sam."

Miguel groaned, hand going to his hair. "Yeah well, it isn't what you think, alright."

"I don't care."

Miguel sighed. "Yeah you do, you said it yourself."

The air left Eli's lungs in a drawn-out huff. "Can you forget today for a second? Listen, I couldn't give a shit if you still have a thing for Sam, just don't fall all over yourself to win her back and then get all depressed when she doesn't. I mean, chicks just don't understand, all they wanna do is talk. They'll talk shit about all their friends and piss and moan about every little thing that they hate, but that's it, they'll just talk. The minute you do anything physical they'll say _you've_ got issues."

He was too intoxicated to fully stem the flow of words, and Miguel seemed intent on listening for once.

"So, it's probably a good thing you didn't just kick Keene's ass… I mean, she can't be mad at you for trying to return that precious medal, so you've done something right, at least. I don't know if she's screwing Keene or not, but if she's not, you might actually have a chance." He almost stuttered again, and he couldn't tell if it was the wave of emotions bubbling up or the effects of downing five beers in a mere hour. "You can be happy about that, right?"

He didn't know if Miguel was still taking all this in, but he certainly wasn't just doling out advice anymore. It just flowed, and it felt good to talk for once without anyone interrupting him with stupid advice.

"So go for it, if you really want to. I don't care, really. Just, stop moping around, okay? I kinda miss the old Miguel. If you won't tell me what's wrong you can at least just hang out like usual and pretend nothing's the matter, for me... and everyone else."

His brain finally ran out of stuff to say, and he chugged the rest of the bottle in a haste hoping the liquid would choke out any remaining word vomit.

Miguel was still huddled up on the floor, and he could feel his eyes on him even if he hadn't been looking at him through his peripheral. The only consolation Eli had is that it might not have been comprehensible anyway, and Miguel was perhaps already too blunted with intoxication to really sort it out.

He suddenly wished the floor would swallow him whole, and he carefully avoided looking anywhere but his feet, lest Miguel see just how downright stupid he felt in that particular minute, overflowing emotions tugging him in two directions; a rational side that assured himself that he'd simply drank too much and was ruminating useless shit again, and the other half who expected Miguel to laugh at him or get supremely pissed because he had every reason to after what he'd just said.

"...Okay."

But he didn't _sound_ pissed off.

Maybe Miguel thought he was just being a drunk idiot and let it slide, or that he was a hypocrite and just pitied him instead, thought he was a complete pussy for complaining so transparently about Moon and all the bullshit he'd done to try and get her back, all the little comments he'd made about her. Deep down he knew it was nothing short of ridiculous to just expect Miguel to grin and bear it for his sake, to be the same ray of optimism poured into a 175cm; one that still mixed up Spanish and English whenever he was too excited, one who had confided in him how nice it was to feel in control of himself, to stop getting beat up and shoved into lockers because he talked too much and too loud to the wrong people.

With a sick grandmother and an unresolved breakup, and god knows what else was on the back burner –his mother had guessed some kind of mental issues based on what she'd heard from counsellor Blatt, all via Sam's father's words of course– it was nothing short of ridiculous for him to expect Miguel to just grin and bear it.

It was selfish, he knew that. 

With that mental observation between them, Hawk felt all the more weak. He really was a pussy if he'd spent nights, more than he'd like to admit to himself, downing his sorrows in what little he could sneak from his parents' liquor cabinets whenever he couldn't buy some himself, all over a relationship that lasted a few months.

_That stupid tattoo._

_All the things he'd ever bothered to confide in her._

_And for what? Because he put someone in their place for disrespecting Cobra Kai and his Sensei?_

Miguel's grandmother was dying, _maybe_ , his mother was a mess, and he was left to pick up the pieces. For once he was grateful for Aisha's tendency to overshare. At least he wasn't truly in the dark. It still stung that Miguel never told him any of it, but really, maybe this was why. His ears picked up Miguel's voice again, soft and slightly slurred.

"Thanks for coming by tonight." Eli's attention jolted back like a rubber band, snapping him out of his mental spiel while he looked back at Miguel, still sporting a blank face that was becoming friendlier the longer he looked. "This was fun."

And he just nodded, somewhat at a loss as to what he could say to that. He was grateful Miguel hadn't mentioned Moon and also hadn't bothered to acknowledge the garbage fire that he'd so unintelligently spewed out a few minutes ago.

"No problem." He added. He only felt as intoxicated as his body did, stuttering slowly behind where his mind wanted him to go. The fuzzy stranglehold had left his brain, and now he just felt calm. Calm and slightly dizzy.

Miguel was staring at his door, a colourless sketch of a girl adorning the wood. "I'm done drinking."

Hawk placed his empty bottle with the rest, sliding down to the floor so his bare feet met Miguel's sock-clad ones in the middle of the floor. He stretched his arms above his head for a few moments, feeling the tension melt away from the muscles, letting them drop to the floor and revelling in the pleasant fog. He was all out of frustrated words, all out of tightly-crammed thoughts and was content in that moment to just sit on the floor with him until one of them had thought of something better to do.

"Me too."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked it, hated it, or something in between, please leave a comment. It keeps me motivated.


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